


Flotsam

by temporalDecay



Series: Wreckstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternia-Focused, Ancestor fic, Ancestor-Era, Ancestors, F/F, F/M, M/M, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:59:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 169,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First in the <em>Wreckstuck</em> series. The story of Her Imperious Condescension is the story of the Alternian Empire, you can't tell one without dwelling into the other.</p><p>In which a young seadweller’s misadventures lead her to eventually save trollkind from extinction through humorously violent shenanigans and a Pact with the Powers-That-Be, along the way developing her relationship with trolls of various bloodcolors, as well as establishing her general character before she is finally crowned Empress of all Trollkind.</p><p>Includes a shit-stirring rustblood, meteors,  a sheltered brownblood, political intrigue, a too-cheerful-to-live goldblood, gory war, a violently idealistic limeblood, a Stepford smiling Eldritch abomination, a monosyllabic greenblood, desert sandpits, a monstrous jadeblood, <em>more</em> war, a monologuing tealblood, <em><strong>more</strong></em> sandpits, a hyperactive blueblood, violence, a lazy indigoblood, excessively detailed reproduction talk, a thrill-thirsty purpleblood, obscene descriptions of pails, a spiteful violetblood, but mostly just violence and the facepalming, deadpanning fuchsiablood that might or might not cull them all by the end of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Abyssal¤Singer

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr/Askblog/Place-I-Put-Stuff-That-Doesn't-Fit-Anywhere-Else.](http://that-stupid-fic.tumblr.com/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Motherhood and Songs.

** Abyssal ¤ Singer **

It begins.

It would be impossible to say when your journey began, because Time and Space are things you and your kind are rarely ever concerned about. Your true name is unpronounceable and the very sight of you produces - has produced? Will produce? - crippling, unforgiving madness. You were born to die, to carry a vital message from your forefathers - if such a notion can truly apply to a being like yourself - that is to be proclaimed only at the moment of your death, which is coincidentally when you first learned its contents. Like a thousand galaxies burning out, suns compressed into black holes, planets splintered into stardust, you hear the echoes of your own, dying voice and memorize the tones as you prepare for your journey.

When did it begin? It doesn't really matter, in the end. You are young and old and dead and dying and newborn. Coiled into yourself, you let yourself drift through emptiness towards a Veil. One of many. The only one. You arrive when it is ending, the Veil nearly depleted, asteroids hurling themselves into the black-and-white planet at the center of this embryonary microcosm. This and all the others are but cradles where true universes are born. This one too will soon foster Life at its center. You are a strange creature of even stranger thoughts, but even as you wrap yourself around a meteor, knowing this is the first step toward your death, you feel something a lesser being might call delight when you approach the brilliance of the Battlefield. You come from the deepest, bottomless darkness, where Time is meaningless and Space is inconsequential. There is no light, there, but the light of the poisonous Green Sun that threatens to destroy your kind. You relish the brief moments of clarity, even as light fails to illuminate the maddening complexities of your form. Your very existence twists and turns reality into an insane parody of itself.

On the battlefield, Another warbles broken notes with a pale imitation of your voice. You are not a lesser being, you are incapable of baser emotions like pettiness and pride. Yet when you are closest to the center, right before the portal opens and leads you back into your past-future graveyard; you raise your voice with loud, gleeful abandon. You are young and old and dead and dying and newborn, you strike with precision you will lose, once you bind yourself truly to the rules of Time and Space. The Other startles as you disturb his song, distracted for a decisive second that would eventually cost him his life. He is petulant as royalty ought to be, but you care not for any kingdom he once ruled. You sing as you sail through nothingness, towards the grey planet with the twin moons, and the world itself shudders under your notes. You are The Singer, called from the Furthest Ring to let Their voices be heard.

And if an Eldritch abomination like you could smile, you certainly would.

** ¤ **

The meteor unravels into dust as you enter the planet's atmosphere. Your coils tighten as you fall, though when you break the surface of the water, you hardly feel it. Deeper and deeper you go, until you reach the darkness where no light shines. It is familiar, there. It is almost home. In due time - and what do you know of Time? - it will  be home. Here, in the depths barren of anything but silence and pressure and darkness, you unfold yourself, limb by limb, mile by mile. You were made larger than a galaxy, but you fit comfortably in the niche of almost void under the ocean, huddled close to hear the planet's heartbeat drum a rhythm you have never heard before.

You are the Singer of the Void, the Finest Voice from the Further Ring. You have a rhythm. You have a song.

And from your song, from notes too high or too low to be heard, too mad and too kind to be understood, from your song there’s a spark of life. It rises from your cradle up to where the ocean is a rich blue, rather than an empty black. It rolls and twists, and from every sinuous curve in your song, a new life begins. Life that grows and moves and changes. Life with its own heartbeat and its own song. Life that echoes your voice, until the whole planet sings the chorus of your song. And in the darkness of your void, you bind yourself a little more into the rhythm of the world, into the tempo that brings Time. You can feel it now, where you couldn't before. _When_. You feel it slide through you, touch every limb, try to reach every unexplainable corner of you. You allow Time to take you into its fold, offer It a song to pacify its relentless wish to consume you.

Then, your notes change. Your voice shifts. And all the life you have wrought begins to die. Delicately, carefully, the smallest first, the basis for the rest. And as the cadence of your voice reaches a higher pitch, more and more begin to die as well. Your melody slowly loses its choir, until it is only your voice left, and far above, further into the light, there is death in the water and the ground and the air. You are now bound by Time, truly manifest in this world, through song and voice, but you refuse to let Space have you yet. You are the size of a galaxy, comfortably sprawled between the ocean and the planet's crust. Rhythm and Time can measure your voice, but there is nothing that could measure your limbs, understand the way you occupy the void between Space and Reality, existing in both and neither at the same time.

You laugh, then, a shrill sound that makes the nearest sun burst and expand. It heats up the deadened world that wraps around you like a prison and a grave, and you think you will come to enjoy this while it lasts.

You begin anew, in a cycle of life and death, never rebirth. You create only to destroy; you foster life only so you can guide it to die. Now that Time has such a firm hold on you, you can tell your songs last eons. As you guide your newest batch of life to death, Space whispers to you: if you let It have you, if you opened yourself up to It, it would let you reach the ends of the galaxy with your voice alone. But you resist It, it is not time yet. Later, later, when the time is right. Thus, Space leaves you be, writhing at the edges of your being where It ends and your madness begins. For eons you sing, for eons you exist in this planet-cradle-grave of yours, and you are young and old and dead and dying and newborn.

"Enough," he tells you, just as you reach the point where life must turn to death. "Enough of that."

He glimmers with the light of the Green Sun. He stands in Space, just outside the confines of your warped reality. You hate him. You hate all of them. You hate the gleam of green and power that burns out your eyes and scorches your skin. You hate the way his voice upsets your song and makes it stop. You hate him because he scares you, in his prim and proper suit, uncaring of Time and Space as he stands before you, uncaring of anything but his own devices. Your song ends then, not abruptly - because that would be just as disastrous as a scream - but in a low hum that wraps up all the errant notes. Thus life begins to peel itself away from you, to become its own, to grasp at independence from a careful design. To become vulnerable, as well. Your song made it and unmade it, but kept it safe from anything outside the notes themselves. Now they will grow souls and thoughts and lives of their own, and they will become someone else's pawns in a game they don't understand.

"Now be a dear and be silent, please," he croons at you, glimmering green, dreadful white, just outside your reach. "You have, after all, your own responsibilities to care for, do you not, Singer of the Abyss?" You say nothing, for it was silence he asked of you. "Soon, sooner than you think, you'll find yourself with something to do. It will be nice, my pet, won't it? To be the audience rather than the main attraction. I am sure you will grow to be as good an audience as I am a host. And you will find I am simply the best host there is."

Then he leaves you, in the dark of the abyss, in silence. And above, far above, the life you sang into being begins to move, to live, to be on its own. You are young and old and dead and dying and newborn. And if an Eldritch abomination such as you could sulk, you would. But you cannot, because you are not a child, you are not a thing that understands such baser things.

So quietly, you wait.

** ¤ **

Your tiny grey planet-cradle-grave has spun around its sun far too many times to count, and your song children are long dead, replaced by flesh and bone and life that no longer knows how to listen to the drum inside their hearts. You can hear them, from the depths. You can almost see them. But you remain in your abyss, in the dark void where Space has no place for you.

Until they come.

They are tiny flecks of life, so minuscule compared to you, so insignificant, that were you not the Singer, knowledgeable in all rhythms, you wouldn't have heard the drumming of their hearts. They come, these children of the sea, tiny specks of nothing, and they bring light to your home. They want to explore the depths, to know the secrets of the dark.

You unfold your coils and stretch your limbs. They go out like tiny lights, as you silence their drumming hearts and follow their trail to the city they have built, at the edges of the chasm just above the dark void you have claimed as your dwelling. They scream and sing a frantic song as they try to fight you. But they’re tiny, insignificant things, and they die like all tiny, insignificant things do. You like their city, though. You like the stone arches and the marble walls. You reach with your limbs, tear it whole off of the seafloor and drag it silently down with you.

The lack of Space warps and twists the city into a knot of towers and halls and streets and spires. You play with it as a child would with a dollhouse, turning it inside out and upside down, but of course, you’re not exactly what one might call a _child_. You still find amusement in the way the once solid structure keeps changing and melting into new, interesting shapes. You play and play and for a while, forget the world beyond your void.

The tiny children of the sea never come back.

** ¤ **

And then, on a very unremarkable day, she arrives.

Her meteor lasts longer than yours did, breaking the surface of the water as it falls into the ocean, miles and miles above you. But it will not be enough, you know. Her tiny, drumming heart calls out to you as she floats helplessly at the mercy of the depths. The depths have no mercy, and you know what you must do. You uncoil from your cozy little void and stretch out into the light. As you go, your madness spreads as Space _creaks_ in protest. And all around you, big and small, creatures scatter away in fright. She does not fear you. She is so infinitely smaller than you, and yet she does not feel fear of you. You wrap the smallest of your limbs around her, sheltering her as you drag her back down into your void. The minuscule wiggler chirps in delight as you place her at the center of your city, answering to the soft tones of your voice.

She’s not a song, nor is she made of song. Though she has a heart that beats, the rhythm is not one born out of yours. She’s half a dream and half a nightmare, bound to exist and walk a path written out for her long before she was made, long after the end of everything. She is much like you, this tiny wisp of Life, and you - and perhaps only you - understand the tragedy and the glory that is to be made entirely out of predestination. Paradox is at the essence of your being, and at the same time, sits at the opposite of everything you are. Paradox exists at the juncture of Time and Space; Paradox is what you will become, one day, the day you are ready to die.

So you sing to her.

You sing lullabies and requiems. You sing of Life and Destiny and Patterns and Madness and Time and Space and the delicate ways to fracture them all until they shatter under their own weight. You sing to your wiggler while she spins herself a cocoon and grows limbs and fins and toes and claws. You sing to her, and she listens and learns but does not sing back. One day, she will. One day, her voice will join yours and echo in ways the chorus of your song-life never could. One day, but not yet. You delight in your tiny child as you delighted in your city, as you delighted in the light that did not hurt you, as you delight in the sound of your own voice.

You are the Singer of the Abyss, the Finest Voice of the Further Ring. You are young and old and dead and dying and newborn.

And for her, for this creature of song not your own, you become Mother as well.

** ¤ **

They hurt your child, once.

Just once.

She’s a strong, curious creature. She learned to fend for herself easily enough. She spends her time exploring the ever-changing twists of your city and hunting the edge of the abyss for food. The things that lurk in the abyss are several hundred times her size, but _you_ are easily thousands of times _theirs_. In all the planet, quite frankly the entire galaxy, you are the thing most worthy of being feared. Your child doesn’t know fear, however, because you never taught her how to be afraid. You could have, as you know well how to instill fear, but that is not how it is meant to go. There will be others, you know, and those you will teach how to cower and panic and cry. But not this one, not the first one.

When they make her bleed, she’s not afraid.

She howls in anger, instead. When they push, she shoves back. You do not lash out, you do not hiss a song of Death for those who hurt her, you do not make depths swell with fear. She’s a tiny speck of fearless strength, resentful of the pain she’s never felt before. She’s very, very special, this tiny child of yours, and though she’s been hurt, she fights back until she wins. She wins on her own as well, with her own strength and her own wrath. You croon at her, as she sinks back into the cradle of your limbs, with what one might mistakenly call pride. She’s an important piece in a very complicated game, much like you are. She will need that strength and that fearlessness to survive all that she must. She doesn’t need you for protection and you don’t have any real need of her, not now, when you’re still existing outside the confines of Space.

But one day, she will leave you.

One day she will swim up to the surface and bring the world itself to heel. The path she must walk is full of twists and turns, and it’s almost as long as you are old. Your child cannot afford weakness any more than she can afford knowledge. One day she will go where you cannot follow, where your voice will not reach her. You know all that has already been set up before her, but you tell her none of it. That’s not your mission. You were made to sing of Life and Death, to watch over her and the Other one, to shelter and prepare. For the Other you reserve the whispers and the prophecies, the warnings and the promises. For this one, you know the best you can give is company and perhaps fragments of wisdom that might never be used at all. You must raise an Empress without telling her so.

So you do not rage and lash out, when they hurt your child. You don’t raise from the depths to taint the water with fear and madness. You let her sort her first real challenge all on her own, and watch from a distance as she bleeds and rages and fights and _kills_. You offer indulgent comfort once it has been done, careful to let the certainty of her own strength assert itself in her mind. It is the first step toward becoming the type of ruler you know she must be. For she will not be the kind that holds power in name only, no. She will be wanted, at first. Needed desperately, later. And finally, once it has all been said and done, she will be despised for being precisely what her kind will make her into. The song around her carries the notes of a different melody, though, and you can catch glimpses of that tune, sometimes. But it matters little what else she could be, who else she could be. This is the world she was brought into. This is the path that was set before her. This is the nightmare she will weave out of hope and will and need and loss.

You know this, know all of this from the beginning to the end, but you are not a lesser being. It matters not to you. Even she doesn’t matter, not really. Her or the Other, it would all be the same to you. You have a mission, a reason to exist, and all you care about is carrying out your role. Everything else is unimportant. But even so, as you watch her move through your city and grow both in skill and maturity, you begin to realize that you might be glad it is her, and not the Other, that you will foster into this life. You think, perhaps, that this one will not break, will not bend, will not shatter. Oh, she will walk her road, rise above and be hailed Empress by a thousand races besides her own. But in doing so, you think there’s a chance she will not stop being herself. Not that it matters, in the grand scheme of things, so long as she does what she must.

Few things truly do.

But you still sing to her, and wait patiently for the day she finds her own voice to sing back to you.

** ¤ **

You are young and old and dead and dying and newborn. You are not a creature of Time and Space, of feelings and thoughts that can be understood. You were born to die, to sing of galaxies exploding into stardust and stars collapsing into black holes. You exist, curled in your cradle-planet-grave, with a tiny child that knows not to fear you.

And then the War begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gl’bgolyb POV. Because why the heck not. Once you've written Gl’bgolyb everything else is easy as pie.


	2. Violet ✣ Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What lurks in the Abyss.

**Violet ✣ Soldier**

You never thought you would die like this.

You’re a good soldier, you always thought you’d die in a battle after drenching your hands in the blood of your enemies. The type of death that would make your family proud, bring honor to those sharing your sign. Even if you are not from a noble bloodline, you’re still a proud seadweller. You follow tradition and law. When the war began, you joined the ranks willingly, ready to show those arrogant landbred fuckers what it meant to raise their flags against your king.

It’s not fair, you think, that it’ll end like this.

You remember life before the war. There’s always been war, of course, some way or another. The depths are traitorous and all seadwellers know better than to venture beyond the continental shelf. Not that the landbred fuckers would know, of course. They see all your cities near the coast and bitch about territory borders. They want to push you further into the depths, but that’s only because the assholes don’t know what’s it like, in there. Every seadweller has grown up with the legends of the mythical capital, the sunken city that the abyss itself tore off its foundations and dragged further into the bottomless darkness. There’s no place for your kind in the dark, and those who were arrogant enough to establish themselves there paid the price for it. But of course the finless bastards wouldn’t understand. They see the vast surface of the ocean, easily twice the amount of land at their disposal, and assume you could just live there as you do by the shores. They outnumber you a hundred to one, and don’t even bother to stop and wonder _why_. They just think that’s another reason to make your lives hard.

It was almost nice, before the war. Even if there were constant fights with neighboring nations, the kingdoms of the northern seas and the city states of warmer southern waters. Constant squabbles that seem like childplay now. Life in the sea has never been kind, but you are trolls - _real_ trolls, not like those fucking weakling airbreathing shitbags - and trolls are not kind either. You fought and survived and built your homes and your fortune with your own hands.

But something changed, sweeps ago. Something stirred in the land, poisoned the landbred trolls until their thinkpans rotted away and they got it into their stupid, air filled heads that they should expand into your seas. Something awoke the slumbering land kingdoms and nations, and united them against you. Whispers talked about a demon wearing the skin of a troll that granted them power and knowledge to fight. And fight they did, the fuckers. No one really expected it, when they came. Their silly iron boats and their ridiculous weapons. Perhaps if the fight were on land, it would have been taken more seriously, but they were taking it to the sea. They were seriously hoping to win against seadwellers by fighting in the sea. Everyone laughed when their first ships approached the grand citadels and various capitals. You were young then, perhaps ten sweeps old at most. You laughed too, when a friend in the canteen at the Academy swam a circle around the room, making affected voices and faces about the news.

And then one of the great cities of the North fell.

Then everyone stopped laughing.

It should have been so easy, really. All you need to do to kill landbred scum is to take it off land. Even the fuckers that think they know how to swim don’t really know anything at all. You pull them off their silly boats and down into the water and then... then they’re dead. Drowned. It’s so satisfying to watch them struggle and flail as water fills up their ridiculous airbags until they stop moving and sink down to the bottom, horrified expressions frozen on their faces. You’ve seen it more times than you can count now, because you’re a soldier, a good soldier and your sole purpose in life now is to see how many of the finless bastards you can drown.

It should have been so easy to win the stupid war, and yet, it wasn’t. They had their ships that took forever to be sunk, and their goddamn supersonic bombs that stunned you and left you wide open for their harpoons and their guns. They had their goddamn electric charges that turned the sea itself against you. They had numbers and technology and it should have been so easy to win the stupid war but the truth is that it’s been nearly twenty sweeps now and you are very clearly losing.

But it doesn’t really matter now, not to you. Not when you have one of those goddamn harpoons lodged between the gills on your side and your blood is tainting the water a sickening violet hue and you’re dying. You are going to die. You gave your best and obeyed your orders and fought as hard as you could, drowned as many as you could. And they still got you, in the end, still made you bleed and you know you’re dying because you are sinking and the only thing you can remember is the fact you never introduced all your quadrants to your mother. Your line will go on, certainly, but it won’t be through you. You will never wigglers of your own, even though you’ve finally found a suitable matesprit. You still have so much to do, so many fights to win, so many stories to tell. But you’re dying and all you could have been will die with you. You will leave no legacy behind.

It’s not _fair_.

They came out of nowhere, in the middle of the night. You only had enough time to curse as you saw the dreadful spheres sinking slowly before the supersonic waves hit you like a punch in the gut. You were so sure no one knew of this base, you had been so relieved to reach it. You were going to grab some booze with the trolls from your platoon and enjoy some rest before you were mobilized to support a city further south that has been under siege for weeks now. The bases are located as far away from the shore as possible, they are your safe hubs to regroup and retaliate, since most of the shore cities have already been decimated. They found you somehow, though. They found the base and attacked and before you knew what was happening, you were in so much pain you couldn’t even force your gills to open and let you _breathe_. And when you could, you were speared clean by a fucking harpoon and you would be a lot angrier if you could even feel it anymore.

This is how it ends, you guess. With bloodloss and helpless, pointless rage that only fills you with adrenaline and makes you bleed out faster. Death without honor, without a goddamn fight. It’s unfair and you hate it, but there’s nothing you can do.

You sink.

**✣**

“I still don’t understand.”

The voice carries a certain melodious quality in it that snares you from the depths of painless, empty nothingness and coaxes you into consciousness again. You should be dead, you think with vague disinterest. The pain that throbs along each nerve in your body corroborates the statement, yet it is undeniable that you are not, in fact, dead. You’re lying on a rest slab, staring at an arched ceiling that keeps playing tricks on your eyes by changing height every time you blink. It’s probably the whole mostly dead thing at work there, you think, rather than the room actually changing size all the time. Probably. 

“If you insist,” the voice outside the room echoes a bit petulantly, and now that you are more awake, you can at least tell it’s definitely female. The accent throws you off, though. It’s a very... a very indistinguishable pronunciation, without the odd cadence quirks you know each nation calls their own. “I will tell him if he ever bothers to wake up.” You have the sinking feeling you are the topic of conversation, though you can only hear half of it. You lie very still and feel your fins flare in irritation as you strain to hear more. “Oh, Mother, what will he do to me? _Bleed_ on me?”

You don’t scoff only out of sheer military competence, though you grudgingly admit that bleeding all over this mystery woman is probably all you can do in your current situation. It’s quite infuriating. The pain is dull now, but still present. You have many questions, starting by the fact you are still undeniably alive. But also the fact the room keeps playing tricks on your eyes and the salinity of the water is high enough it makes the edges of your gills itch with each breath you take. You’re in the middle of mentally cataloging all your questions when she walks in and your train of thought dies an untimely, messy death as your gills flare in surprise and your fins flatten against your skull.

For one thing, she is quite possibly the most breathtaking troll you’ve ever seen in your life, though you’re not entirely sure you can point out exactly _why_. Toned muscle hides under solid grey skin, which is only marred by a long, wide scar that runs from her left hip to the swell of her right breast in a lazy curve. Then again, that is mostly standard for all soldiers, both in terms of muscle mass and scars, so that can’t be it. Her hair is a mess of black curls floating lazily in the water, framing long horns that curve gently above her head. But you can tell the cuts were uneven and it looks rather unattended, almost aimless. Her fins are delicate fans at each side of her face, almost softening the sharp lines of her jaw, but not entirely. She has a pretty face, maybe, but it’s not something that you would call  beautiful . Certainly, she is not the first troll you’ve seen naked in your life, but even her nudity registers several seconds later. It’s not even the strange hue in her eyes, very distinct from your own.

There’s something quietly dignified and terribly magnificent in the troll that stands before you, something that tugs at you, demanding your respect if not everything else. The way she looks at you, you feel like there is nothing you can hide from her, and worse yet, that you _want_ to hide from her. You shrink away instinctively when she approaches, flinching when she touches the skin where the harpoon skewered you like a goddamn _fish_. 

“If I wanted you dead,” she mentions almost distractedly, watching your gills picking up speed as you feel something not unlike panic crawling its way through your veins, “you would already be.”

It’s the truth, but it doesn’t make the choking sensation go away. You wonder if she’s a psychic. They are rare and very valuable for their skills, but very few bloodlines can produce them. You’ve heard that they’re all the more common in land, but you’re not sure you believe the rumors. If the landbred bastards had true psychics at their disposal, they wouldn’t need their ridiculous technology to make the war shift to their favor, for one thing. You wonder if this strange troll is somehow one of those rare breeds, though the color of her eyes bothers you. It’s... it’s almost warm. Maybe, you think fuzzily, she’s a mutant. You’ve never seen a mutant carry itself that way, though. You try to look away, but find you really can’t, and it’s somewhat ruefully that you mutter the words between your teeth, half in reply to her remark, half because your thoughts offend you.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” she blinks at you, finally looking at your face, rather than your ruined gills, “you do actually speak.”

Water forces itself through your gills in surprise as you bark a small laugh, though she doesn’t laugh back. She’s staring at you, curiosity tinting the way her eyebrows raise.

“Well, yes,” you try, when she says nothing, and the weight of her stare starts to itch. “Where I am?”

“Mother’s city,” she says with an elegant shrug, and you still can’t pinpoint exactly what makes her so strange, but it’s in everything she does and says, commanding your attention and making you hang onto her every word. “I was out hunting when I found you. I’d never seen anyone like you before, Mother says you’re a troll like me.”

This whole thing is bizarre. It sounds like those silly stories they tell wigglers in the brooding halls before they’re big enough to join their families. You give her an incredulous look.

“Your mother is a queen?” You ask, and you can’t shake the uncertainty in your voice. You’re trying very hard not to mention it, or really think about it, but you don’t know of any princesses that go around naked with their hair sprawling everywhere in the currents.

“Mother is a Singer,” she replies instead, in that strange, sanitized accent that’s too nebulous to place. The water all around you is cold and way saltier than you’re used to, which doesn’t help you at all to try and figure out your location. “She owns this city.”

That makes no goddamn sense at all, but you’re not without honor. She saved your life. You can be patient and grateful enough to figure out things carefully---then she places her hand on your side again, and it glows with a strange white light that doesn’t hurt, on its own. Before you can ask, however, the light dies and your entire body _howls_ in pain. You twist up as you feel every muscle clench and tense and the entire room shift around you as you desperately gasp for some water through your gills. Except the extra salt in the water makes your gills twitch and your entire body shudders violently, which only makes the pain worse. You’re a goddamn soldier, you are used to pain and strain but this is ridiculous. You don’t know what she did, except it felt like your nerves were set on fire and your spine loaded with electricity. Like someone dropped some of those landfuck charges right on your head.

She keeps looking at you as the pain recedes, studying you like some fascinating little unknown artifact. You bare your teeth at her, pretty certain you’d be trying to break her neck if you could move, but she only pats your wound lightly and offers a small ghost of a smirk before she turns to leave.

“I’ll be back later with some food for you.”

And then she’s gone. You lie there, staring at the ceiling - that keeps fucking shifting around and now you’re starting to think there’s something seriously fucked up around here - and glubbing in annoyance as your body stops spasming in pain. Glubbing. You haven’t glubbed since you were _four_.

Well fuck.

**✣**

Your... captor? Savior? You’re not really sure what she is anymore, has been kind enough to explain a few things to you. If by kind you mean utterly unhelpful and by explain you understand talking about nonsense that makes no goddamn sense. Apparently after you got _brochetted_ , you sank into her backyard while she was out getting some food. You don’t really believe that because you are pretty sure you passed out while you were sinking into the abyss and it has been well established that whatever the fuck lives down _there_ , it ain’t trolls. At least her reason for save you makes some sense. Somewhat. She has this... talent, that she needed someone to practice on. You suppose anything that keeps you alive is a good enough thing. It hurts like a bitch on fire though, the way she... she almost seems to be forcing your body to _live_. The rest of what she’s told you, you’re not really sure what to make of. For instance, you don’t really believe she’s never met another troll before you, because how would she even be alive? Trolls need families and clans and tribes to keep them alive. Few things are so easily killable as goddamn grubs, for fuck’s sake. And the depths are dangerous on their own. A wiggler needs someone to teach them how to navigate them. More than that, they need rules and orders and tradition and law. You’re a fucking soldier, you’ve been at war so long the idea of living without the chain of command makes you panic in a very quiet, very dignified way. Trolls don’t survive on their own, and doesn’t she have a Mother she keeps talking about? What is she, if not a fucking troll? Though to be fair, you haven’t seen her at all, not even heard her. You haven’t seen or heard anyone else, either. The way she carries herself throws you off, too. The way there’s this... pride to her movements, this arrogant little gestures that irritate you to no end. You don’t know how to react to them, or the way she moves or the fact she’s always fucking _naked_. You don’t want her as much as you want her to want you and it drives you quietly crazy the way you are almost certain that’s some kind of psychic bullshit at work.

She’s crazy and makes no fucking sense but you’re getting better and better, every time she waltzes in and puts her hands on your wounds and makes you feel like she’s pulling out your bones through your goddamn gills. You feel stronger bit by bit and soon enough, you think, you’ll have enough strength to get out of the room with the fucking crazy ceiling that keeps shifting - it _likes_ to shift, she told you, when you pointed it out - and playing tricks above your head. And then. Then you’ll be fine, you think. You’ll go and meet the others of her weird too-warm-for-a-seadweller blood caste and you’ll meet the Mother you occasionally hear her argue with. Sometimes, though, sometimes she asks you so many things about your world, about your family, about trollkind in general, that you quietly wonder if she’s not some crazed bitch living alone in abandoned ruins, spoon feeding you nonsense before she tries to kill you. She’s never heard about your king or the war - seriously? Who _hasn’t_ heard of the fucking war? - or mundane stupid things like your clothes or the rings at the base of your horns. She doesn’t ask you as much as demand answers, with that same strange bluntness that seems untamed by any sort of proper manner schooling. But that’s ridiculous, of course. You will make sense of her and the ceiling and her Mother and everything around you. And when you’re feeling good enough, you’ll swim your way back to your platoon and the war and you’ll kick so much landbred ass your broodmates are going to start introducing themselves in reference to you rather than trolls four or five generations above you.

It’ll be fine, this is your second chance. It might not be what you expected or even wanted, but it’s what you have and fuck it if you’re letting it go to waste.

**✣**

When you’re strong enough to move on your own, you try swimming around the room a little before actually trying to stand. Your body has been horizontal for so long you can feel your entire being straining to adjust position to upright. You find yourself feeling a little lightheaded as you try to master your body into compliance. Walking is a very awkward affair you’re glad no one is around to witness. You manage perhaps three or four steps before resorting to floating because your muscles feel awkward and unused. You have this weird sensation all the time, like pressure is fluctuating all around, except that would be impossible because the room has not moved at all. Beyond its weird size changing shenanigans, at least. It drives you crazy in a very quiet way, the way the dimension of the room keep changing when you stop paying attention to them. You feel better and stronger and fine, but there’s the thing with those strange hallucinations - that’s what they have to be, right? - and the little details that keep making you question your own perceptions. It nags you like an itch on your hornbeds, something not quite right that you can’t put a finger on.

“Oh, you’re up.”

You whirl around in the middle of the room, wincing as the world shifts unpleasantly around you as you float. She’s standing by the doorway, seemingly undisturbed by all those pesky things that keep bothering you. She holds a tray in her hands, with some more of that raw squid meat she insists it’s proper food. That’s another thing you will not miss from this place, once you leave; fuck, every meal makes you miss your rations dearly. That in and of itself it’s some kind of crime, you’re sure. But it fills you up and gives you strength, so you don’t complain - out loud.

“I’m feeling better,” you announce even as you continue to float, feeling too disoriented to walk yet.

“Hm,” she replies, shrugging easily and leaving the tray with your meal - stripes of something blue and likely slimy today - by the rest slab. “I suppose if that’s the case, I can ask Mother if you are allowed to come out of the room yet.”

You freeze, fingers holding a piece of meat - you think it’s meat, probably - and turn to give her a wary look. It hasn’t been a concern, yet, given how you were unable to move before, but now you feel stupid for not thinking about it right away. She throws you off too much. The way she moves, the way she speaks, the way she looks at you. You make mistakes, have been making a good number of mistakes. You scowl.

“Am I a prisoner, then?” Your voice is terse but there’s a spiteful bite in it that you didn’t really intend to put in it. You don’t want to pick a fight with her, it would be dishonorable to kill the troll that saved your life.

You don’t doubt, for a second, that you can kill her if the need arose.

“Prisoner?” She blinks slowly, voice deadpan and expression... blank. You think the blankness means surprise, in her, but you’re not entirely sure. “Why would you be? Oh, of course, because you’re a foreigner and not a member of my caste.” Somehow, her tone makes you feel defensive, and at the same time, supremely stupid for said defensiveness. It’s infuriating. “No.”

“What?”

“No, you’re not a prisoner,” her fins flare slightly as she enunciates clearly, and now you’re certain she thinks you’re stupid. It only serves to infuriate you some more. “Though I’m not sure you can leave without dying.”

“Why?” You narrow your eyes as you ask, fins pressed tight against each side of your face and gills flaring somewhat indignantly.

“Because Mother’s city is like the ceiling here,” she tells you, somewhere between amused, ominous and wry. “It likes to _shift_.”

**✣**

A week later - it feels like a week, though you’re not entirely sure about the passage of time - you are strong enough to walk. Your mystery woman tells you her Mother has approved your desire to venture out into the city, proper, and that’s how you find yourself walking around ghost streets. The city is illuminated by ancient anemone lanterns, the kind you’ve only read about in ancient texts: tall posts made of stone with the curling plants growing in special receptacles made of glass and mirrors that amplified the glow into steady light. No one has used that kind of lamp in ages, though, not since the bioluminescent bacteria were discovered. Unlike the anemones, the bacteria used in most cities are easy to contain and far more efficient in their production of light. If left unattended, the anemones become something quite like a plague, and as you can clearly see, so they have in the city. Not only do they grow in their posts, but on the floors and the walls and the ceilings of the various buildings. The entire place glows almost ethereally, and you wonder how it’s possible that the landbred scum hasn’t targeted it yet, when the glow is so bright it must be visible from the surface. Now you understand why the room you were in has light without a visible source.

You can’t see the surface, though, when you look up. You squint and find yourself staring at a black void, the stars completely invisible. You swim up a little, before a surprisingly strong grip on your wrist stops you.

“Don’t go up,” she tells you, too-warm eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ll die.”

You look at her for a moment, then look up again, thoughtful. Her fingers are tightly curled around your wrist, almost tight enough to hurt. You consider snatching your arm free and then make a run for freedom and the surface, but that would be dishonorable. You also spy something gigantic and tentacled that might or might not be a giant squid crossing far above you, in the edges of the city’s light. You swallow hard and float back down, until your feet touch the tiled floor.

“Right,” you say, awkward and uncertain, once more thrown off the loop by your situation, and continue walking down what appears to be the main street.

Perhaps this city one of the mythical cities built in the slope, and it somehow survived the fall of the empire. It’s very unlikely an entire seadweller citadel would have survived without others knowing about it but it has been nearly nine hundred sweeps since the great seadweller empire fell to pieces in the wake of the Abyssal Horror. Most seadwellers you know consider the story to be a grubstale, something of a legend to lessen the enormity of the revolution that finally ended an empire that lasted centuries. You’ve always secretly wondered though, given what you’ve seen the few times you’ve ventured into the dimmer waters. Either the empire was never as glorious as history insists it was, with several sprawling cities sitting comfortably in the dark depths and a complex web of commerce and technology advancement, or something much bigger than trolls obliterated the grand citadels and forced seadwellers to live closer to the shores, in constant contact with the landbred scumbags.

The construction is certainly archaic. Not only the lights are antique, but also the designs of the buildings and the fact the whole structure is made of marble. Marble is a fucking pain in the ass to find; one of your father’s broodmates made a fortune when he stumbled upon a cache of the stuff inside a rock formation near the edge of the continental shelf, a few miles away from your hometown. Just the idea of an entire city made of it makes your head spin a little. Caught up in your thoughts about the strange design of the place and the odd little things that keep nagging you, like the fluctuating salinity levels and the odd shifts in pressure and the light and the marble... You shake your head to clear your thoughts and you realize you’re standing in the center of the main square. A wide open space where the tiled floor becomes a giant design that takes you a long moment to recognize. For one thing, because there’s writing in it, that you have never really seen before and thus you can’t read. For another, because your history schoolfeeding was never a big priority and it’s been more than twenty sweeps since you saw that design. It’s the old calendar, the seadweller one, with the seasons and the holidays represented by colorful tile drawings in large, concentric circles. No one has used that calendar in nearly a thousand sweeps, but seadwellers still learn about it, if only to complain about the heritage their closeness with landbred bastards has cost you. 

You stand there, trying to take it all in, and feel a strange, sinking feeling curling like a ball of ice in the pit of your gut. You swallow hard and turn to face the troll sitting idly on a marble arch.

“Where _is_ everyone?” You demand a tad hoarsely, fins flared and teeth bared. “ _Where_ are we?”

She looks down at you with a puzzled frown, then shrugs.

“I told you,” she sounds exasperated, and it makes you feel stupid even though you have every right to be confused and you’re taking this whole thing far better than most, you think. “We’re in Mother’s city. There’s no one else here.”

“That can’t be right,” you insist, turning to face her with narrowed eyes and bubbling panic in your veins. The little nagging things are building up and putting a strain on your mind and your body. “That’s _impossible_!”

Your voice echoes, but she only shrugs in reply.

**✣**

You wake up inside the dim room again. You raise again, frantic and disturbed. With shaking hands, you collect your battered armor, casually discarded in a corner, and dress yourself appropriately. You storm out into the main corridor and make your way down the wide stairs towards the street again. You don’t remember passing out, but you must have. It must have been a joke, a very bad joke on her part. It doesn’t matter that from what you’ve seen, she doesn’t act the type to make that kind of joke. It has to be a joke, some kind of prank. The streets are just as empty as before, but now there’s a strange menace in the water, a quiet whisper of unease that refuses to leave you be. You enter various buildings but find them all empty. You don’t make a sound, though. You’ll catch them unaware. Yes. They’re probably huddled somewhere, laughing at your embarrassing display and congratulating themselves on their cleverness. You’ll show them. You’ll show them _all_.

And her, too. Her. Oh yes, her. With her strange allure, you’ll make her sorry she wasn’t nicer to you. You’ll make her beg forgiveness. Near the main square, you find a building full of weapons, old harpoons and swords and culling forks. You grab one of them and smile ferally at your reflection. The joke will be on them. Entirely on them. The streets and the buildings and the light itself seem to twist and turn under your feet and you’re probably hallucinating but you don’t care because you are so _mad_. You don’t care if she saved you. You don’t care if she healed you. She and her clan or caste or kingdom or tribe or whatever the fuck it is; they’re all a group of fuckers that thought they could make a mockery out of you. You’ll show them how wrong they were. You run into the square and at some point stop touching the floor with your feet, swimming at full speed instead. You cross the empty plaza and ignore the way the buildings in the distance seem to be melting off somehow. You hear her. You can hear her voice, and you swim swiftly towards her, teeth bared and fins flared. In the silence of the empty streets, her voice carries a strange echo.

“I hunted this one for you, Mother,” you can hear her say, voice carrying that put-upon tone that makes you want to dig your claws into her gills until she bleeds that disgusting fuchsia blood of hers.

“You!” You demand, as you turn and enter another plaza, culling fork held tightly in your hand. “You fucking _bitch!_ ”

The plaza is mostly filled with the carcass of a giant squid. She stands there, blinking in surprise with her own culling fork held in a loose grip. You are hit once more, by how striking she looks, how... how unnatural. Her long limbs and her uneven hair and the curve of her horns and her eyes and---

And then something moves behind her, in the darkness.

You don’t get a chance to really look at it. You register something white and tentacled and that might be an eye or a maw, you can’t tell. The world explodes around you, into an insane whirl of colors and pressure and salt and water and you feel your senses burning out as you contemplate just a minuscule fraction of the horror that lurks in the depths. You scream as you let go of the culling fork, feeling every vein and artery in your body implode at the same time. You keep screaming as your eyes burst and the world is reduced to a single point of pain and insanity and _death_. Just before you become a stain of violet floating aimlessly in the water, you think you hear her shriek in fear, echoing the horrible sound you make as you die.

If you still could, you would feel inordinately proud of yourself for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and only one-shot character, I promise. The rest of the cast will have the decency to last a bit longer after they're introduced. Coincidentally, you'll get to meet them all next chapter! They have names and everything.
> 
> Also, I think staring at a horrorterror in the face might be one of the dumbest and most painful ways to die.


	3. Changing  ※℧‡ʆ₪⁂৳§☥ℵ♓  World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then the World Ended.

**Changing  
※℧‡ʆ₪⁂৳§☥ℵ♓  
World**

** ※ **

There you are, minding your own business at the forge, yelling orders at your greenest batch of apprentices, when the world ends.

You don’t notice, at first. There is always screaming and bitching and yowling and music and dancing and all kind of riots outside your door; it’s the rustblood way. So you’re at war, big fucking deal. Stoicism is for the battlefield, but this is a fucking city. _Your_ fucking city. This is where you sing and dance and fuck and drink and eat and make life worth living. Rustbloods are the most ruthless warriors because when you’re fighting you can only think of all the things you’ve left behind. You’ve heard other bloodcastes separate themselves by age or nobility or skill or something like that. That they divide their territory in small provinces and settlements, instead of sticking all together. That’s not the rustblood way. 

You are all broodmates, no matter how old or how young. You kill together and eat together and fight together and fuck together and exist as a single, cohesive whole. A single being with several thousand pairs of eyes and horns and hands, moved by a unified will. You’re at war with the tealbloods and the seadwellers and you don’t really give a fuck because it’s their fucking deathwish, picking fights with you. The indigobloods offered your people an alliance, a few sweeps back. Their skinless carcasses were sent back, along with a set of rugs made from their hides, horns still attached. You’re rustbloods. You don’t need anyone’s help to squish a bunch of squidfaces and tealbastards. And you in particular are in charge of producing the weapons that will help your brothers and sisters kill the fuckers dead. It’s a great honor that you’ve earned after sweeps perfecting your craft.

Other castes have more advanced technology, you know. The goldbloods, specially, are a whirlwind of innovations in the art of making a motherfucker’s innards into landscape decorations. But you don’t need that kind of sciencey stuff to make them fuckers quake in their boots. All your people need are fine swords and axes to decimate anything that stands in their way. That’s the rustblood way. You’re a well oiled war machine that is constantly moving all across your considerable territory, marching with the seasons, slaughtering your enemies and stopping only to fill your brooding sanctuaries with the newest batch of wigglers. You leave them in the care of those too wounded to keep up, who will raise them and teach them and train them and when you arrive again, in your perpetual cycle through your territory, they will fall seamlessly into place, replacing the bastards that ended up as red smears in the battlefield. You don’t need technology when you have numbers and strategy and the fucking will to see things through to the end.

So when the screaming starts, you don’t really notice, and you don’t even care when the ground shakes under your feet. But when the scent of charred flesh reaches your nostrils and the shrieking registers as panic and not the perpetual orgy in the streets, you begin to think something might be wrong. You don’t bother to put down the hammer as you storm outside, ready to bash a few skulls in if necessary, but what you find takes your breath away.

The city is in ruins. All around you, your brothers and sisters scream and run in a disorganized mass, reeling back from an attack they can’t repel. The sky burns as the meteors fall mercilessly, hammering the earth into a scorched nightmare of brimstone and death. You’re rustbloods, you’re hatched for war. But this isn’t war. This isn’t even slaughter. This is hell.

You stand outside your forge, hammer uselessly held in one hand, and stare as your world comes to an abrupt end right before your eyes. Your apprentices flock around you, screaming incoherently. The stench of your ruined city curls around you, easily overpowering the familiar, soothing scent of oil and metal you are always surrounded by. Every city shares the same floorplan, with the forge near the center, right next to the brooding halls. Your cities are designed to protect the most important parts of your lives: the next generation and your weaponry. The survivors are already flocking towards your location, instinctively seeking the safest place they know. You watch with a strange fascination as an incandescent ball of fiery death smashes into the brooding halls, reducing the entire building and a good chunk of your forge into smithereens. The force of the impact throws you and any troll within a half a mile radius off your feet. The screaming and howling raises again, grief worming its way into everyone around you, driving them into a frenzy of panic. You, however, are not reeling. It’s not surprise or fear or panic or shock that floods your veins and makes your pulse echo loudly in your ears.

You’re _enraged_.

“Rustbloods!” You roar, nearly tearing your own throat by sheer volume alone. “Shut the fuck _up!_ ”

They’re terrified and confused and they need guidance. You’re furious and desperate and in need of something to _do_ , to combat the choking helplessness threatening to eat you whole. This is not the rustblood way. You don’t have a leader, not the way other castes do. Your army doesn’t work that way. You’re all equal in your fierceness, a unified whole that cannot be divided.

But the world is changing, and the true rustblood way is survival.

You stand tall with confidence you don’t really feel, at all, but you know what must be done.

** ℧ **

You haven’t even hatched yet, when the world ends.

You don’t know this, of course, because you are too busy trying to break through the thick crust of your egg. You roll your head, back and forth, chirping quietly as you rub the tips of your horns over and over the same spot, wearing it down. While you struggle with the first trial of your life - getting out of the egg - the world around you burns to ashes. You can hear the screams from other trolls, but you can also hear the screams from the forest itself. The trees and the grass and everything green and burning, screeching in voices only you can hear. 

You don’t know a great deal of things, because you’re small and insignificant and barely conscious of yourself. You don’t know you’re a brownblood from one of the ascetic forest clans, who serve as spiritual guides to the rest of your nation. You don’t know anything about the great brownblood nation, whose territory mirrors the rustbloods from the northern continent, and who have always been in constant war with the greenbloods and the bluebloods for control of the southern lands.

You don’t know anything, but when you finally break through, there’s no one to answer your pleading chirps. The adults around you are too busy trying to salvage anything they can, shrieking orders and trying to contain the fires, refusing to run away even as the meteors continue to fall. The next time the ground shakes violently under you, the grotto begins to collapse. There’s a sick sound as rocks slide down and smash the eggs close by, and your young senses are assaulted by the myriad of confusing sensations that terrify you. Unable to cope with anything at all, newborn and cold and scared and tired, your pathetic chirping raises into an actual _wail_.

The adults can’t answer you, can’t even hear you. But _they_ can. The quiet ones. The ones that whispered to you even as you grew inside your egg, the ones who scream the loudest as the forest burns and yet remain thoroughly unheard. They listen and they _care_. And the adults notice then, when every last remain of greenery flourishes with a vengeance, stretching and twisting and _growing_ until the forest itself is sheltering the survivors from the last onslaught from the meteor storm.

But you don’t know that, because you are already curling into yourself and weaving your cocoon, soothed by a lullaby no one else can understand. You don’t know anything at all, except the quiet whispers ghosting between your horns as you work. You are more theirs than your own kind, they tell you. They will always love you, they tell you. They welcome you as much as you welcome them.

By the time the adults are certain their unique shield will hold for a while and they manage to reach the center of it, they only find the broken remains of their brooding grotto, with all your broodmate eggs smashed and their remains messily sprawled at the base of the grand tree that was definitely not there before the meteors began to fall. From that tree, the main support of the structure weaved of branches and leaves, hangs a single brown cocoon.

In half a perigee, when you come out, the world will have already changed into something else entirely. In half a perigee, they will tell you things and try to make understand and make sure you _know_. But you will never be theirs as much as they wish you were, you will never stop listening more to the quiet ones, than your own blood and caste.

Even after the world ends, ignorance will always remain _your_ bliss.

** ‡ **

Your day was already pretty goddamn shitty, all things considered, when the world up and decides to fucking _end_.

It’s just your luck, you think, as you - and the rest of the fucking battlefield, really - stop and watch as the bright dots of red in the sky grow and grow until they become fiery balls of fiery fucking _doom_ speeding your way. You jerk your left hand back, dislodging your knife from the throat of the purpleblood you just killed and take a moment to appreciate your surroundings and let it all sink in. There are bodies sprawled all over the plain, in various states of gutted mess, and an almost awed silence spreads as the first meteor hits the purpleblood side of the battlefield. You take half a second to marvel at the _fucking inbred idiocy_ , when the fucking apes just stand there, blinking and scratching their goddamn heads in bewilderment. To be fair, your fellow goldbloods aren’t fairing any better in that department, too busy staring and letting their maws hang fucking open with their jaws on the floor.

Not you, though, you’re a fast thinker and by the time the first screams begin to bubble in their dumbstruck throats, you’re already moving.

In retrospect, it’s kind of really stupid to worry about this, what with the world _ending_ , but goddammit, you came all the way here for a reason and you might as well see your mission through. You don’t really belong in a battlefield, anyway, you were here just to gather data for the newest toy the guys back in the capital were preparing for the war with the purpleblooded assholes. You’re fast and smart enough to pull off this kind of thing, and the entire battle itself was meant to be a diversion to give you a chance to steal the information you needed from the enemy stronghold. So while everyone is busy screaming and running around, trying to avoid getting unpleasantly splattered by a flaming rock, you split yourself and fight your way towards the lone fortress behind enemy lines. There’s not that much fighting to be done, what with everyone dying and all, but still the few purplebloods that notice you make token attempts to crush you with their clubs or spear you with their lances or stab you with their swords or cut you in half with their axes. You almost feel bad for culling them, really, since their genetic pool sucks enough as it is - for crying out loud, they’re at war with _goldbloods_ , how is that not a universal sign of mental deficiency? - but they are in the way and you’re in kind of a hurry here. They get a few of your projections, but you have enough adrenaline in your system it’s not even a sweat to keep replacing the ones they kill. Your horns are buzzing, gold volts arching between them as you move. You are dangerously close to burning out, when you finally make your way past the fortress walls.

You’ve never actually been inside an purpleblood stronghold before, to be honest, since you are not a frontline fighter. That’s not to say you’re not a competent, skillful killer, since you’ve already left a trail of bodies to get here, but your true talent is your mind. Goldbloods value skill: if a grub’s skill is fighting, they will be trained to fight, if a grub’s skill is thinking, they will be trained to think. Of course, since the war began - and who the fuck even _remembers_ when the war began? - you all kind of needed to learn how to fight, but the Administrators have tried to keep the spirit of the system in place. Pretty much the entirety of the planet is at war, anyway, one way or another, and has been for more than a three hundred sweeps, but you’ve still managed to become the ones with the deadliest weaponry and the best technology. Considering you’re at war simultaneously with the purplebloods and the indigobloods and the tealbloods and the seadwellers and even the brownbloods at times, it’s the only way you’ve managed to survive. You’ve always been smart, the kid who likes to fix what isn’t broken, as your fellow Designers back home call you. You’re not a kid, not by a long stretch, but your size and your speed was partly what made you eligible for this mission.

The rest is just the fact you’re batshit crazy in a way that’s usually brilliant - and utterly catastrophic when it’s not, but the products of your ingenuity have thus far saved your ass from culling when shit hits the fan - and when you find yourself inside the enemy’s territory, you don’t just dive in for the data you came from. Oh no, that’s for amateurs. You take the time to rig the damn place so it goes up in a giant ball of flames the moment you’re far away enough.

Retrospect hits you in the face when the would-be magnificent explosion looks kind of anticlimactic in the background of _meteor apocalypse_. Right. That is still, in fact, a thing that is happening. Right now. You have this little problem where your mind kind of wanders all over the place, and then you get lost in your thoughts but keep moving and somehow between mental meandering and muscle reflex you’ve done this or that after roughly half an hour of ignoring the world. The world’s never ended while you were ignoring it before, though. That’s all sorts of new and kind of really fucking sucky, to be honest.

Shit.

Now that you’re actually paying attention, the stench of charred corpses hits you pretty hard, making your innards twist about unpleasantly. You have no qualms about killing things, but the whole aftermath of it... it’s definitely not your thing. In the distance, you can still see the meteors falling, the ground rumbling accordingly every time they hit. You entertain the silly thought that the entire planet is under asteroid attack, just because the idea is ludicrous enough to tickle your fancy a little, but that’s just fucking impossible. You stand there for a moment longer, the sky still burning and the world ending, surrounded by death and fire and an odd sense of unreality, like it’s all just a hallucination of some sort. But it’s real and you know that, so you do the only thing you can.

You deal with it.

** ʆ **

You drink tea with your family as you watch the world end.

It is exactly as you foretold, sweeps and sweeps ago. Even the tiniest details add up to what you dreamed, and you will never forget the dream that saved you from getting culled. All limebloods are psychics, each and everyone of you. The ones that do not show any kind of talent by the age of five are summarily culled and forgotten. Your psychic talents are your only protection from the war, the key to the precarious immunity you have bought with the rest of trollkind. You sell your talents to the highest bidder, turning the tides this or that way, and you alone are the ones who know whose hand fans the flames of war planet-wide. She is called Demoness in the records that your people keep of her, carefully detailing meetings, sightings, dreams and prophecies. She has approached you, before, but has always been turned away. Limebloods do not fight, you merely keep record of the future and the past and the things no one knows, and only tip the scales when it is necessary to make reality match your visions and prophecies.

You prophesied this.

You dreamed of brimstone and death raining down all over the world, an unstoppable act worthy of the wrath of a god. You dreamed of the island quaking almost to the point of sinking. You dreamed of the buildings collapsing and the trolls screaming and the gut-wrenching despair you feel right now, watching your world fall apart all around you. The others know, of course. Not just your family, but the entire limeblood population. They have known since you escaped the culling block and your prophecies began to be recorded. They have always known it would be this way, and most of them try to keep aloof in the face of disaster, to retain their dignity as they stare at the inevitable. So you drink the tea your mother made and watch with a certain morbid grief, even though you wish to scream and swear and lose your temper and cry like a wiggler over this.

“All is as it must be,” your mother rumbles quietly, staring at you over the rim of her cup.

She will not die here, you know. You have already dreamed her death and told her so; she was rather pleased by it. Neither will you or your family die here. The entire island will be left a wasteland by the time it is over, and your numbers will be greatly diminished by then, but none of your immediate family will die here. No, you have seen their deaths further down the line, each one a nightmare you hated more than you dare confess even to yourself. And even though you know destruction will encompass the entire planet, reaching into every corner and dealing a deadly blow to every caste and every nation and every clan, you do not cry. You do not scream or curse or lose your temper. It is the end of the world as trolls have known it, the most effective way to end the spiral of war and carnage that has gone on for so long, few if ever even remember when it began. But it’s okay.

This, you know, is not the end, but the beginning of something else entirely.

All your dreams and prophecies exist for it, and you know you will dedicate your life to ensure the dream becomes reality. It is not even a particularly charming future that lies ahead of you, but you cannot fight the inevitable. You cannot change what you have already dreamed. That is the first thing all limebloods learn, after all. You cannot change fate. Your visions are not warnings about things that could be, but chains that tie you to a future path you _must_ walk. It does not matter the cost, it does not matter the strain, they must come true. The alternative is an unspeakable horror no one wants to contemplate. But you do not feel despair. You will not let yourself feel despair. You gather all your rage and your fear and your urges to run from the future you have foretold, and instead turn them into a determination that burns as bright and hot as the citadel all around you.

You are the prophet who foretold the end of the world as trollkind knows it, and also the fool that must walk the path to rebuild it. You drink your tea and silently contemplate how insignificant you are before the task presented to you. How unfit. How unwilling. How little you matter, in the great scheme of things.

How little of a fuck you give, when you have work to do.

** ₪ **

You are vaguely annoyed, when the world ends.

You have a job to do, and it is somewhat impossible to complete it when the sky starts pouring down fiery balls of death and destruction all over the place. Your psychics let the slabs of rock fall in fright, pulling away from their posts and turning to you with panic in their eyes. Honestly. They’re _psychics_. You roll their eyes at them, indifferent to their fears and point up to the sky.

“At least try to stop them, if they bother you so much,” you tell them, voice as flat and toneless as ever. “But if you try to run,” you go on, noticing the way a few of them are twitching in a very unbecoming fashion, “know meteors are the lesser of two evils.”

They flinch. Your wrath is worse, they know. You handpicked them all, when they were very young, almost as soon as they began to show signs of psychic powers. As a favorite of the queen, it was an easy thing to be granted permission to take them. You raised them all, taught them discipline and control and above all, obedience. Together, between your careful design and their coordinated skills, you have built some of the most well known landmarks across your territory. From military structures to modern hives to royal palaces. You are known to be efficient and precise, and that once you have taken a job, you will move earth and sea to complete it. You do not fail. You do not quit.

You also really don’t care much about the world ending, here, you have a contract to fulfill. You look at your psychics and begin giving out instructions again, orders short and sharp and to the point, as usual. Except instead of building up your newest masterpiece, you are directing them to try and stop the meteors from hitting the city and redirecting them away. It’s only obvious, you think. It makes perfect sense. You imagine everywhere this is what happens, someone takes charge and gets the psychics going, using their talents for the wellbeing of the rest. Why would anyone let panic take a hold of them, when it is obvious what needs to be done? 

So you honor your title and direct your children - and they _are_ your children, in the end - offering the clipped praise they strive so hard for, as you guide them until their panic has given way to serene composure. This is just like work, just like usual. Once they’re done, they know, you will let them rest and enjoy a feast. They’re your children, not your slaves. You are ruthless and demand absolute obedience, but you award their unflinching loyalty with equal flourish. You are the one who kept them out of the war, after all, who gave them a life using their talents to create beautiful things, instead of being sentenced to a short, painful existence in the frontlines, under brute commanders who don’t understand their gifts and their needs and who would simply force them to go on until they burn out. You have made certain they understand how privileged they are, how grateful they should be.

So the world goes on ending, but the screams in the city begin to quiet down as your children float up there, to stop the unstoppable. You ignore the cheering crowd as easily as you ignored their screams before, not even once deigning to look at their awed faces. They are fickle things, trolls. One day they love you, the next they’re stabbing you in the back. You used to have friends, before you earned the favor of the queen. Then you lost them all when one by one they tried to have you culled. Some of them had the decency to be upfront about it. Most just tried to tangle you in a political web and have bureaucrats do it for them. They disgust you, really, all of them, your greenblood kin and the rest of the castes, but it’s not your problem what they do or don’t. You exist just outside their reach, so long as the queen continues to favor you so overtly. After your services tonight, you are not sure how that could ever change.

For you, it is not until you learn that the meteors killed the queen, that the world does truly come to an end.

** ⁂ **

Your world ended many sweeps before the meteors came.

Your world ended when your father’s disgrace sentenced your entire clan to slavery. You were sold to the highest bidder, stripped of your sign and your name and your title, forever torn apart from those you loved. Your master was kind, but that only made you hate him more. Your master refused to brand you, to marr your skin with his sign. He liked you enough to keep you unharmed, and not enough to make you breeding stock. Most would say you were lucky, then, that what he liked best about you was your voice and your sharp tongue, and allowed you the freedom to speak your mind. He even gave you a new title, befitting of your talents, and took you with him no matter where he went. The rest of the slaves in his house certainly look at you with scorn, jealous of your favored position. He listens to you and makes you listen to him, confiding in you like he can’t in anyone else, even his matesprit. Like you’re his moirail, rather than his slave.

But you don’t feel lucky at all. You don’t feel privileged. And most of all, you refuse to consider him your moirail in any way. He is your owner and he stole your freedom, and no matter what he tells you or how he tries to make you feel better, that will never change. He’s a general in the war, the very same war that your father failed so spectacularly at so long ago, and which doomed your bloodline. He moves about the small tealblood territory, and makes you march along his soldiers, jokingly comparing your skills to theirs. He let you keep your fans, but you have never shown him how good you are with them, because the day you do it will be the day you’ll rip his arrogant face off his goddamn skull. You don’t think most of his men even know you’re a slave, that’s how much freedom he allows you. But that doesn’t matter because you still hate him, you hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone in your life.

So no, the world does not end for you, when the meteors come.

The world ends when he shoves you away, curled around you in what some might mistakenly call concern, shielding you with his body from debris as earth and fire flies everywhere. Trolls are screaming and running around like a flock of scared feathedbeasts. And he is dead. Everything seems to crawl into an impossible stop, white noise buzzing in your ears as you find yourself covered in his blood. He’s dead. He’s _dead_ and you didn’t kill him. You’ll never get a chance to, now.

“My lord! My lo---”

You stare at each other as the other troll lets his sword fall to the ground. You don’t even know his name, but you understand. Tealbloods are landlocked and surrounded by enemies on all fronts. Your territory is small but valuable and you have not stopped defending it from invasion in many hundred sweeps. Everyone lives and breathes the military chain of command. This troll right here is feeling what you did, when they took your father away, the same loss and panic and fear. Families and armies are the same thing, for tealbloods. What matters is not who’s at the top, giving orders, but that someone _does_. The ideas run through your head faster than you can even properly register them and your throat goes dry. The question is not whether you dare, but whether it’ll work.

“Report!” You snap at him, filling your voice with command you have no right to issue.

But your voice has always been your greatest talent and he snaps into attention without a second thought, the wave of relief is barely visible as a ripple in his face.

“The entire battlefield is chaos, my Lady,” he replies accordingly. “The troops are confused and so many have been killed, though the enemy has vacated the premises. It’s just us for now.” And then the illusion breaks and he looks at you somewhere between predatory and begging. “We need--”

“I know,” you whisper, making a show of patting your master’s face affectionately. Then you stand, tall and proud, a new fire burning in your eyes. “We will endure.”

The law is clear. If a commander falls without a replacement at hand, a quadrant can take their place. It doesn’t matter that you were - _were_ , as in no more - a slave; for the world at large, you are his moirail. And it sickens you to the point of filling your mouth with bile, but if such is the way to your freedom, you’ll take it. You will take your place and disguise your hatred of him as grief for his passing. You will claim his sign as your own and embrace the title he gave you, and it sickens you that even in death he has managed to taint your freedom this way, but you will have your revenge by surviving.

The world ended a long time ago, as far as you’re concerned. Now all that matters is to live on, free.

** ৳ **

It’s your first night in the battlefield, when the world ends.

You’ve waited for this all your life, training hard and preparing to make your bloodline proud. You grew up with stories from your older brothers and sisters, about battles full of slaughter and beating impossible odds. Stories about conquerors and generals and condecorated heroes. Your bloodline has produced too many great stories to even try to count them all, and you have waited all your life to join the battlefield and write your own, so that wigglers in future generations will look up at you as you did your older siblings. You can’t wait to unleash your whips and show the world how it’s done. You’ve never killed a troll before in your life, but you figure it can’t be that hard. Can’t be all that different from the beasts you hunted with your broodmates, in preparation to this night.

Except before the fighting can begin, the sky turns bright with death and fire.

You stand there, whips hanging uselessly from loose fingers as you try to take it all in. There are screams and orders and shrieks and above all, the terrifying noise of flaming rock smashing into the ground. Trolls fall like your toy soldiers back home, now probably in the hands of your youngest siblings. Everything is chaos, but not the chaos of the battles you’ve yearned for. It’s something vile and degrading and terrifying and all at once the panic slams into your being, so hard you feel like your bones are breaking. Your muscles unlock at once, and adrenaline scorches in your veins as you let out a bloodcurdling scream. You weren’t raised for this. You didn’t come here for this. You shriek and turn away, not sure where you’re running to, anywhere, just not _here_. You don’t care about stories or heroes or honor or family history anymore, all you want is to escape the unrelenting horror spreading all around you. You slip in a puddle of blood - cerulean blue, just like yours - and roll down into a smoking crater. You burn your hands as you claw at the sides, trying to crawl out of it, and somewhere deep inside your mind, something keeps shrieking. It will take many sweeps before the shrieking stops.

When you manage to get back on your feet, the smell of blood and shit and piss and death punches you in the gut, making you choke and gag. You cough violently, trying to avoid throwing up all over yourself - because that’s _exactly_ what you need, right now - and stare helplessly at the riot all around you. The once pristine lines are broken and trolls are scrambling about, trying to get out of the way. No one seems to even care about bloodcolor or hierarchy or anything. They just run and scream and then die when the meteors catch up with them. There’s so many of them, it seems like this will go on forever.

You weren’t raised for this.

No one told you it would be like this. 

You were supposed to fight and show off and earn yourself a name so you could go home and enjoy the perks of being a war hero. But not this. You don’t remember when you started crying, falling to your knees and waiting to die. What else can you do? The ground is muddled with a sickening mixture of blood and ash, there’s no one left around to scream when everyone has so much trouble even breathing. So you kneel there, useless and defeated before you could even start fighting, and wait for death to take you. You’re pretty sure it won’t even hurt all that much, getting killed by a meteor. You are hysterical, you note, when you start thinking being killed by a meteor would make for an amazing story to tell your siblings. Except you’d be dead and there’s no one left here to care about you or even know who you are. You are no one, and you’ll die like no one.

But death does not come for you.

The meteors eventually stop falling, slowly but surely. The fire eventually dies out, but not before scorching pretty much everything in sight to a blackened carpet of ash. And there you are, still kneeling in the middle of it all, the lone survivor in miles around. You survived the end of the world, but it was pure luck that saved you, you know. Not skill or bravery or cunning or any of those things traditionally displayed by heroes. You’re not a hero.

But you guess you’ll just have to spend the rest of your life trying to be one.

** § **

You would have slept through the end of the world, if your children hadn’t woken you.

They’re not yours- _yours_ , but you are in charge of them. After all, they are the brand new generation of recordkeepers and you are the poor sod responsible to care for them. You slam your palms on your desk, prying your face off the book you fell asleep reading - oh god, you hope you weren’t _drooling_ on it - when you feel little hands on your clothes and your hair.

“I’m up, I’m up, _I’m up!_ " You say that more for your benefit than theirs and turn to look at the young kids shifting around eagerly at your feet.

They’re not laughing, though, which you’ve come to expect from them. They’re tiny things, barely three sweeps old, with wide eyes and very familiar signs. Indigobloods care as much about history as they care about the war. There are entire bloodlines dedicated to preserving it, the only ones that are spared having to fight in the war. In theory, anyway. The war has gotten worse lately, between the seadwellers and the goldbloods keeping you all on your toes, and coincidentally less recordkeepers are hatched with each sweep. You know the elders at the grand library whisper about wigglers getting their signs swapped and sent to the frontlines instead, but you like to keep your nose out of politics. Your job is to train the young and transcribe old records and maybe not go insane while you are at it. Also sleep. Sleep is good. You think the war would be over pretty quickly if trolls would just bother to get a good day’s sleep. It does wonder for one’s temper.

You’re in danger of falling asleep again when the little hands start tugging at you again and you blink away the drowsiness as best as you can.

“What’s going on?” You ask, after you’re done with your customary tongue-curling yawn.

“Fire,” one of your boys whispers, when the rest only look at you with wide, frightened eyes. “The library is burning.”

“ _What?_ ”

“There’s rocks falling from the sky!” A little girl says, worrying her shirt with her claws so hard it’s a miracle it hasn’t given yet.

“Big rocks on fire!” A third one pipes in, waving his arms for emphasis.

“What are you talking about? Rocks don’t fall from the---”

And then the ground _shakes_ , furiously, like a barkbeast shaking water off its fur. You nearly fall from your chair, between the earthquake and the children clinging to your legs desperately. The youngest one, a shy little thing that can barely be coaxed to speak on a good day, starts crying. Soon enough, the other three follow his lead, eyes watering and little claws refusing to let go of you. You groan.

“Oh god, don’t even _start_ ,” you plead at them, before forcefully removing them from your legs so you can stand. Just in time for another earthquake, stronger than the last. “What the hell?”

You sidestep the blubbering kids and cross your room with long, purposeful strides. The corridors are empty, given most of the recordkeepers are in the grand library at this time. To be honest, so should you, but you were tired from a very long calligraphy lesson and decided to read a bit in your quarters. And nap. Man, you’re going to be so pissed if your nap got interrupted by a prank. The kids trail after you, making quiet, scared noises and whispering to themselves. You don’t really pay them much attention, to busy trying to figure out what’s going on. And then you take a turn into the open corridors that overlook the grand library and all air leaves your lungs at once.

It _is_ burning, and from where you stand, you can now hear the loud screams as the other recordkeepers try desperately to contain the fire. The gigantic building is crumbling and covered in flames, and it only takes you another second to register the cause. The sky is dotted with bright red lights, that are most definitely not stars. The meteors fall mercilessly, big and small, somehow avoiding the sprawling hive you are in and apparently focusing all their wrath on your beloved library. You don’t even try to go and help, there’s nothing you can do. So you stand there by the balcony rail, resting your hands on it and gripping the stone hard enough to make it crack. The children curl up against the wall, crying in fear as the scent of burning ink and paper raises from the library. You recognize the stench of charred flesh and bone, and you know they’re dying too. A meteor hits the hive, the shock of the impact threatening to throw you off your feet but you remain upright. You ignore the crumbling walls, rooted in place. If it starts collapsing, you’ll move away, but for now it seems like it will hold. The children start sobbing loudly behind you.

“Watch!” You snap at them, turning to glare at them over your shoulder. “Don’t you fucking dare look away!”

Because you can’t do anything to help, you can’t stop this. But you will make damn sure there are witnesses and that history will not forget this moment. You’re are the recordkeeper that will write the account describing the end of the world.

It’s the least you can do.

** ☥ **

You laugh, when the world ends.

The battlefield is stewed with corpses, most of them full of disgusting golden blood. Your troops are just coming together after a night of slaughter, preparing to set up camp and sleep the day away. And then the first meteor falls. It leaves a giant crater at the heart of the battlefield, making the ground shake unpleasantly beneath your feet. You look at your officers for a moment before stepping out of the tent to yell at the fuckers making a racket to shut the fuck up when you catch sight of the field. It’s burning, now, as more meteors fall and continue to spread burning death on the dead grass and the carcasses of the idiots that got killed tonight. You take in the whisper of panic among your troops, the way they shift uneasily and unconsciously turn back to you.

There’s a tingle at your hornbeds, the prelude of something unpleasant about to happen and you howl as you fall on all fours, taking off in a frantic run. Your soldiers are well used to your temper and your unpredictability, to ask any questions. Most of them, anyway. The fools that don’t follow you, too busy spluttering nonsense, are the ones who end up reduced to fucking splatters of blood when the meteor hits. You can see the survivors from the corner of your eye, running alongside you on all fours, following you on blind faith in your instincts. Your instincts are kind of legendary for having never letting you down before - well, you’re still _alive_ , aren’t you? - so it’s quite justified. They ask no questions and dare not slow down, even as you lead them to the fire, vaulting over the flames with impeccable grace. Some of them die, not strong enough to keep the pace or graceful enough to jump over the flames, or just bad luck. But enough of them survive as you indulge in what’s quickly becoming your new favorite game of all time: fucking meteor dodging.

You run and run, even after your knuckles bleed and your horns throb with the prolonged song of danger. You are Lord of the Fire Plains, and now that your lands are taking upon their namesake, you make honor to your title and laugh with wild abandon as you keep moving. You’re not even sure where you are going, except away from the widespread destruction all around you. Your clan is somewhat an outsider from the official structure of what other castes call the purpleblood nation. Every clan has a representative in the council, to decide the future of the war and what to do next, as a whole. Every clan but yours. You are too wild, too unpredictable. Even if your lands are some of the best in control of purplebloods, even if your army is full of men and women willing to die for you. You are too wild. Others fear you and scorn you and you don’t give a fuck because all you care about is the game. The game is everything, life itself is the game. To fight and hunt and kill and be killed. All that matters is the excitement building up in your guts, the siren song caught between your horns.

You run through the lands, even after the meteors die out, after the scorching sun rises, pushing the edges of endurance because even with the meteors gone the world is still burning, still ending. You run and keep your kin safe in your footsteps. Others join you, running behind, mixing into the pack behind you. They’re yours now, as far as you’re concerned. If they’re smart enough to fall on all fours and follow, if they take their proper place. You’re not thinking about politics and alliances and the council and all that stupid shit the other clan leaders enjoy discussing while they get drunk on cheap booze. You care about survival, the frenzied pulse of life in your veins.

You keep moving.

Just keep moving, not even the end of the world will stop you.

** ℵ **

When the world ends, you’re all too fucking happy to let it take the fucking ungraceful shits that you call kinsmen.

Really.

You are nearly six hundred sweeps old, and do they respect you? Do they heed your warnings? Listen to your wisdom? Of course not. The young are always concerned about what’s imminent, about doing things the fastest way possible, never stopping to think and plan and scheme and consider. So you don’t look your age, so what? No one has ever actually seen a troll grow old, as far as you know. Anywhere, from any caste. For all you know, you could all live on forever, but you all die in really stupid, violent ways. You’ve just managed to cheat yours by being smart and dashing and pretty fucking amazing. Not that anyone bothers to recognize it. You could have ended this fucking war in a week, if anyone bothered to let you try, but of course no one ever fucking _listens_ to you. So it’s good the world is ending. You’re fucking glad! You will laugh at their screams and their shrieking and---

\---and barely after the first meteor hits, you’re already in the air, eyes glowing violet as you unleash your powers to the limit.

God fucking damn it all.

Psychics are rare enough, more so because the few that are hatched invariably fry their goddamn pans out and burn themselves out in a bloody mess you’ve seen far too many times to count. But a little thing you’ve learned first hand is that the power only grows with age. You’re nearly six hundred sweeps old and quite possibly the strongest telekinetic psychic in this goddamn mudball of a planet. You tell yourself it’s only because you don’t want to die, that you bother to shield the sea from the incoming meteors. It’s not like you give a goddamn shit about the stupid seadwellers who never bothered to listen to you, and who are now floating in the surface, gaping up at you like you’re some sort of freak.

Oh, wouldn’t that be rich? You save their fucking fins and they make you even _more_ of an outcast in return. You can almost see it happen now. It just fucking figures.

You grumble to yourself as you raise towers of water from the ocean to catch and slow down the rocks, hoping they’ll sink harmlessly instead. Even at your age and with your experience, the task is daunting enough, and you begin to feel your powers wane well before it’s over. But you still push yourself, one more, just one more... and then you see the thing heading your way. It’s massive, easily the size of a city - a _real_ city, the likes that flourished in the depths beyond the age of the war. And it’s speeding your way, covered in flames and way too big even for you to handle. 

“Oh, _fuck_ me.”

You don’t even try to stop it. You wrap all your remaining strength around you, glowing like a violet star half a mile above the surface of the ocean, and brace for impact. The last coherent thought you have, before the world is reduced to heat and pain, is that at least you had the decency to _not_ die of burnout.

Then everything goes dark.

** ♓ **

You are out hunting, when the world ends.

You swim in the depths, squinting at the darkness to try and find something worthwhile to kill, when a sudden burst of light above you calls your attention. It dies out soon enough, and the depths are returned to their peaceful darkness. You stare at the distance, bewildered. You are far too deep for light to really make its way to you, and yet... Yet it happens again. More and more flashes of light, golden-red that makes you uneasy. It’s not until the heat comes that you decide to abandon your hunting trip and instead turn back to Mother’s city, swimming as fast as you can. 

There’s something wrong with the ocean, but surely Mother will know what to do. She knows everything, you know, and there has yet to be a question you’ve asked that she hasn’t answered yet. You make your way to the plaza where she likes to speak with you, the one where you wove your cocoon so long ago, the one where the only troll you’ve ever met died his gruesome death. You still have nightmares about that, sometimes, though you’re still not sure why he died in the first place. Mother says it’s because he was not like you, used to looking at her. You don’t understand how it’s possible to die just from seeing Mother’s face. She’s so beautiful, so elegant. Everything about her is strength and grace and you can’t even begin to grasp what about her could so terrible as to cause someone to die in such a violent fashion just by staring at her. Mother loves you and raised you and taught you all you know. Mother is kind and sings for you, sometimes, and tells you stories, when you ask. 

“Mother?” You venture, floating down until your feet touch the floor. You know she’s there, always. The city itself is cradled in her many limbs, but sometimes she sleeps or dreams or goes quiet, and you don’t want to upset her. You’ve never seen her upset, but you love her too much to try and find out what it’s like. A familiar tentacle slides into the plaza, scooping you up until you’re sitting on it, hands resting easily on the surprisingly soft, white skin. “There’s something wrong with the ocean.”

You close your eyes to listen to the soft whisper, the notes of a song curling pleasantly in your ears. The tentacle pulls you away from the city and into Mother’s body, where you let yourself be cradled as you listen to her explanation. You don’t like it. She talks about times changing and trolls needing you and your time in the depths running out. You don’t want to ever leave Mother’s city. She seems to be reading your mind, because her song turns into a gentle melody about companionship. Wouldn’t you like to go and meet others like yourself? To find the place where you belong?

“I belong here,” you mutter, sullen like a child despite being old as eons. Who cares about time in the depths? “I don’t want to leave you.”

But, she sings to you, you will. You will eventually leave and meet others and do great things. They will welcome you with open arms, they will love you and need you and you will find your home among them. Not yet, she hastens to add, as you feel the touch of those massive limbs delicately running along your spine, but soon. It will be time soon. The world is changing, it never stops changing, and it is your destiny to be at the heart of those changes. And, she promises sweetly, you will always have a home in the depths with her. No matter where you go, how far you travel, you will always be able to turn back and see her, and she will always love you.

You don’t like it. You don’t want things to change. You want to stay here forever, listening to Mother singing and hunting giant beasts a hundred times your size and exploring the ever-changing layout of the city. You have no need for other trolls, no care for what they want or hope for. After meeting one of them, you can’t say you are terribly impressed anyway. Who cares about war or blood or complicated things like that? You’re just happy where you are, as you are. And a strange whisper in the back of your mind makes you uneasy, promising terrible things. But still, if Mother tells you to, you will go and do as necessary. You just have to make sure to be done soon, so you can come back.

Far above, the world ends, but in your heart, you still harbor the hope that it will be alright in the end.

You will _make_ it alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, the main eleven players of the events in _Flotsam_.
> 
> Next chapter things actually happen and they all come together to start their little adventure. It'll be fun. Kind of. Maybe.
> 
> I am also forever amused that the only sign that doesn't render properly in all browsers is the canon one. Condesce why must you make everything difficult?!


	4. Rust ※ Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of the Ten.

** Rust ※ Warrior **

You let a long, heavy sigh once you find yourself alone once more. 

You’re grateful for the privacy the tent allows you, because it lets you take a break from the mask of unbreaking determination and unwavering confidence you need to wear near constantly. But you hate it all the same. You yearn to go and lie in one of the big piles inside the other tents, sharing warmth and closeness with the rest of your kin. You remember life before the world went to hell, how fucking nice it was to be just another rustblood. Before you had to break taboo and self-appoint yourself leader, no matter how ill-fitted for it you are. It’s gotten easier, with the sweeps, like a pair of well-worn boots just a size too small. Somewhat uncomfortable, but at the same time, familiar enough to make up for it. You still remember, though, what it was like before. And you miss it. You miss your forge and the sweet sound of your hammer pummeling metal into a useful shape. You miss the perpetual march from one city to the next, unhurried and unpreoccupied. There was an inexplicable beauty in it, the sound of several hundred thousand feet hitting snow and dirt and dead grass, each step sure and unfaltering. Now there’s barely even three hundred of you left, and more and more die each sweep. There’s not enough prey to hunt and feed you all, and the climate is all over the fucking place. It’s like the world itself is trying its damn hardest to see you and your kind eradicated. 

Still, if it were just that, you know morale wouldn’t be so low. Rustbloods are made to endure and survive and spit at life in the fucking face when it doesn’t go your way. No, the true evil that is slowly eating away at your people comes from inside. More and more of you die, because that’s just the way it goes and everything that lives will eventually die. You don’t mourn the ones that do, because rustbloods don’t know how to mourn. You celebrate life and cherish it for as long as it lasts and once it’s gone you move onto something else. 

The thing is, there hasn’t been a single egg laid after the meteors came. Not a single wiggler hatched, not a single child to be taught your ways and your pride. 

It’s not for lack of trying, you know. After the dust settled, the survivors thoroughly celebrated life the best way rustbloods know how: eating and drinking all you could salvage from the smoldering ruins, and fucking anything that held still long enough. Against statistical impossibility, a perigee later, not a single troll was heavy with child. Not a single one. The orgies and the rackus slowly died off after a while, especially after you led your people through a complete migration cycle. Each and every city was in ruins, lifeless and desolate. There was another grand celebration, a full sweep after the meteors came, full of hysteria and desperation, when you all realized it was just you left. And still, despite literally days of crazed, frantic fucking, no wigglers came. The more time passed, the more the flame of life dimmed in everyone around you. You hate it. You hate to see your once proud people withering into hopeless husks of their former selves. 

But you still survive. 

You’ve long abandoned the migration cycle, instead adapting to chase after the few viable hunting prey that struggles to survive in the wasteland your territory has become. Not that anyone bothers worrying over the border anymore, since you’ve only run into another group of trolls a handful of times since the meteors. It wasn’t paradise, before, what with you being so far up north, but it was still good land. Life used to be good, and the others wallow in the past, now. Rather than being the trolls that focused solely in the present, your people have now turned all their energy in remembering when things weren’t so fucking shitty all the time. Sometimes, when you manage to hunt something big enough to feed everyone for a few days, they gather around the fires and share the same stories they’ve told a thousand times. The tales about the war and the fucking amazing thing it was to be a rustblood then, when they could afford pride. You never indulge with them, though you know the pool of stories is growing smaller and smaller as more of them die. You are the only one who keeps focused on the present and all that’s fucked up and needs solving. You’re the rustblood leader, the first one ever. You’ve got to keep your shit together. 

But fuck if you _want_ to. You want to dive into a pile of warm bodies and feel their heartbeats and know you’re once more part of something larger. You want to go back to the cities and stop worrying about hunting and shelters and feeding hierarchies. You want your forge and your anvil and the comforting _clank_ of a hammer falling on red-hot iron, not the sick squelching of a skull breaking under it. You want to make things again, rather than spend all your time trying to salvage something that, in the deepest, darkest corner of your soul, you know is already fucking doomed. You’re not made to lead. You have no fucking clue how you are supposed to lead. You try your best to make things right and keep the others alive, but it kills you a little every time they emphasize the distance. You’re not a single, cohesive whole anymore; it’s you and them, separated by an invisible line from which your authority hangs. 

You stare at your reflexion in the basin of water someone left for you to clean yourself. Little gestures like that, servile and grateful and heartfelt, they’re so fucking wrong there are no words for you to describe it. Rustbloods didn’t use to be like this. Rustbloods didn’t use to know how to single out a leader. And this is what you’ve made them into. You’ll keep them all alive as long as you can, but you can’t help but wonder if you’re also killing them a little, along the way. Your reflexion stares back at you, thin and dry and rough, with cracks already ghosting all over the corners of your eyes and mouth. The molting will start soon. In two nights you will reach one of the less ruinous cities and you will hide away for the nights it’ll take the old skin to fall off and the new one to harden enough. Food has been somewhat scarcer than you would have liked, but you don’t think anyone will starve while waiting for it to be over. In the old days, molting wasn’t a big deal. Old skin out, new skin in; tattoos had to be re-inked and everyone made an effort to be extra careful and watch out for the poor sucker stuck being _tender_. But that was it. Now, every troll that molts feels the dread of being vulnerable for those precious days, driving home the fact that you’re all _weak_ now. It’s worse for you, though. It’s worse because they can’t bare to lose you. They sink into a manic, helpless panic every time you molt. They fuss over you and try to ensure nothing even remotely harmful comes your way. 

Without you, they would be dead. You know this. They know this. It doesn’t make it any fucking less unbearable. 

You growl a little as you slowly take your battered armor off, piece by piece. Then you carefully unwrap the rough leather wrapped around your body like a second skin, making sure not to upset the pockets of dead skin already forming white bubbles where the armor and your clothes rub the most. You dip your hands in the water and splash it on your face, careful not to rub too hard as you wash the dirt off. You want to dig your claws into the dead skin and tear it off, to scratch until the itch stops, but you can’t. It’s not safe. With infinite patience, which you don’t fucking have, you rub the water on your skin. It’s cold and makes you wish you could massage your sore muscles, but you ignore it. Your shoulders, your neck, then down the swell of your breasts and the curve of your abdomen, all the way down to your legs and your feet. You wash yourself delicately, as if you were some kind of fucking breakable doll. 

You look down at yourself, remembering your first molt. You were twelve and stupid, then. You got into a fight with another forge apprentice and somehow the squabble ended with you two fucking behind a hammer rack. It was messy and violent and frantic and _fun_. At least until the skin between your breasts gave under her teeth and you shrieked like a wiggler being culled. She gave you so much shit about that, and you would have made her into a proper fucking quadrant, if the asshole hadn’t gone and gotten herself killed three sweeps later. None of the eggs you laid - or _she_ laid, for that matter - picked her sign. You can’t even really remember what it looked like, except it was spiral-y somehow. All your quadrants died when the meteors fell; you hadn’t thought about them in a very long time, probably not since your last molt. You feel stupid remembering those things, but you feel cornered and weak and helpless. Memories try to rise to the surface of your mind, but you ignore them and move away after one last look at the basin. It’s nearly empty now, and what little water remains in it is dirty. You drop yourself into the pile of pelts and furs, and try to curl in a way that doesn’t put too much strain on your skin. 

Not even sleep is a real comfort, now. Sure, your body will rest and be ready for another night full of walking, tomorrow, but the day terrors always leave you feeling tired even after a full day of sleep. You know you’re not the only one, either. One of the last psychics that still survive theorized it was because so many trolls died at the same time and it upset the Great One Mind. You know the Great One Mind is a real thing and not a bunch of fucking spiritual bullshit because it makes _sense_. No one teaches a troll how to speak, but you all know how, as soon as you come out of your cocoon. It doesn’t matter the color of your blood, either - which was convenient, back when you really needed to tell a fucking tealblood that their Ancestors were nooklicker whores. And no one gives a troll their sign, they already know which one they’ll pick; it’s the first shape you all draw, and the easiest one to remember, for the rest of your lives. The Great One Mind is like a great nexus where all trolls are connected, one of the few things that prove that despite bloodcolor differences, you are all a single species. And since the meteors came, the Great One Mind is full of screaming and rage, each day filled with the violent thoughts of the trolls that were slaughtered that night. 

You curl up in your nest of furs and pelts, empty warmth that doesn’t compare to the pleasant, humid heat of several dozen other bodies squirming to fit together in a comfortable, compact pile. Outside the tent, the sun is rising and turning the dark fabric of the tent into a lighter shade. The light makes you drowsy, coupled with the heat, and soon enough you’re snoring softly, uncaring of the world outside. 

** ※ **

You’re locked up in the old forge, bored out of your skull and nearly driven crazy by the itch of your new skin, when the screaming starts. 

Your people have grown quieter since the meteors stole away your way of life. There is no longer any music or dancing or swearing or fucking outside the forge. They always speak in half whispers now, sullen mutters and quiet words. The screaming makes ice run through your veins, because you recognize the pitch and the intent in those voices, even if you can’t make out the words. Intruders. Of all the times to come under attack, this is the worst possible one. You’re vulnerable and weak, and that only makes your people nervous and frantic. You swear up a storm as you grab a loose cloak and throw it over your naked body, ignoring the way the rough fabric hurts against the patches of new skin and makes the remnants of your old hide itch something fierce. You grab your axe and storm outside, if only to be seen and make sure the goddamn stupid morons don’t dissolve into a panicked mess. 

Your mouth goes dry at the sight before you. 

There’s nearly a thousand trolls flooding the old main street, heading up to where you are. Even if you weren’t molting and your people weren’t half starved waiting for you to get done with it, the odds would not be in your favor. Your grip on the axe’s handle is tight enough to hurt, and not just because the skin on your fingers is new and uncalloused. This is it, you think, with a numbed, detached sort of finality. This is it, the end. This battle will be the end of the once proud rustblood nation, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. Part of you is almost glad for it; glad that it will be battle and not starvation that will see you all to the end. At least that will not be a fucking disappointment, you will not go out without a fight. You set your jaw and make your way down the stairs towards the main street, ignoring the stifled gasps or the way the others seem to part before you without question. They know they’re doomed, too, and at last some of the old fire seems to have been rekindled. The silence is oppressive, as your people fall ominously quiet in your presence, waiting for you to give them the go ahead and lead them into slaughter. 

The invaders are armed, but they don’t seem to be ready to fight, standing idly by. At the front, a single troll stands, leaning some of his weight on a staff. You can’t make out the color of his eyes, so you can’t tell what caste he’s from. But you can tell he smiles the moment you step through the lines of silently snarling rustbloods, and the expression infuriates you beyond words. You run your eyes along the lines of trolls behind him, but you scowl somewhat when you realize there must be some mistake. There are tealbloods with him, you would recognize the fuckers anywhere, but there are also bunch of brownbloods and indigobloods and bluebloods and even a small group of greenbloods. You can tell from their tattered clothes and the muted colors they wear, with their signs emblazoned on them. That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows that trolls of different bloodcolors don’t get along. They don’t travel together and certainly can’t stand to be within arm reach of each other without violence breaking out. But here they are, right before your eyes. They even have several dozen packbeasts, as if to accent the fact they’re nomads. Your eyes snap back to the troll at the front, when he gives a step forward and you have to raise a hand and calm your people when they tense, ready to spring forward. He’s tall, though not nearly as tall as you are, with slender limbs and horns that are thick, flat and straight before abruptly curling back. He’s wearing solid black, slightly faded with age, but without any identifiable sign or blood color anywhere in the fabric. Simple travel clothes, not all that different in design from the leather ones you usually wear under your armor. 

“Are you their leader?” He asks you, voice unbearably pleasant and calm. 

You twirl the axe in your grip, even though the movement pulls at the skin on your arm and makes it feel like it’s on fire. Then you place it before you, linking both hands over the tip of the handle in a way you dearly hope looks impressive and intimidating. 

“I am,” you snap back. “And I’m also the only reason you haven’t been skinned alive, yet, so why don’t you tell me what the fuck do you want.” 

He laughs at that, though it’s not the mocking laugh of someone calling on a pitiful bluff, but rather genuinely amused at something you certainly don’t understand. 

“I am the limeblood called the Dreamer,” he tells you, and something in the frankness that affects his voice bothers you. “And what I want is for you and your people to join me in my journey.” 

There’s a long moment of very fucking awkward silence as you stare at him like he’s lost he’s fucking mind. 

“ _What_.” 

“I am a prophet, Blacksmith of the Rustbloods,” he goes on, smiling some more as you and every other rustblood tenses to the point of pain. You _are_ the Blacksmith, but you haven’t used your goddamn title in nearly forty sweeps; not since the meteors destroyed everything you once cared for and forced you to be called Chief. “My dreams earned me my title, and they also told me of the Great Catastrophe long before it came. My dreams tell me you will be needed, so I have sought you out.” He motioned with his arm to the other trolls with him. “These are the trolls who’ve chosen to join me. We do not want to fight you, but we will not hesitate to defend ourselves. My mission is too important to die here.” 

“And what,” you ask, forcing your voice to not sound hoarse, “is your so called mission, limeblood?” 

You will not call him by title. It’s a sign of respect you refuse to give him. 

“You suffer the same as every other troll on the planet, Blacksmith,” you want nothing more than to dig your axe into his fucking face, everytime he uses your title. “The meteors destroyed our homes and killed our kin, but they also somehow stole our children too.” Startled gasps echo somewhere behind you, but you refuse to look over your shoulder. “Not a single egg has been laid, nor a wiggler hatched, in the whole of Alternia since the Great Catastrophe. Trollkind will go extinct, at this rate. My mission is to fix that.” 

“Pretty fucking ambitious of you, isn’t it?” You can’t keep neutral, and the snideness of your voice surprises you a little. You’re molting and tired and vulnerable and you don’t believe him at all. It must be a ploy, somehow, though fuck if you know why he’d bother. There’s nothing valuable in the city, not even food. “What makes you feel you’re the one who should go about fixing that?” 

“Because I dreamed it, so it must be so.” He has the gall to shrug at you. “Will you join me?” 

You can feel the eye of every single rustblood on you, and the weight of their stares and expectations and hopes and uncertainty is nearly enough to break your spine. 

“Why should I?” You snap after a moment, cursing at yourself because it’s a non-answer and you know it. 

“Because if you don’t,” the Dreamer replies, in that annoyingly placid voice of his, “I’m going to keep pestering you until you do.” 

You want to laugh, so you do. You manage to make it sound taunting, rather hysterical and crazed. A few other rustbloods risk a chuckle or two, echoing your voice. By the time your laughter dies, it sounds mostly as sheer disbelief. Disbelief is good, disbelief doesn’t smell like weakness. You shake your head. 

“What makes you think I’d let you live long enough to _pester_ me?” 

The limeblood - if he even is one - shrugs again, as if he had expected the whole conversation to go that way. If he’s a real prophet, you suppose he might have. But you cling to your disbelief. It must be a trick, somehow. A stupid attempt to kill your people. You’re grossly outnumbered, but you’re still rustbloods, you’re not about to give up. 

“Spiteful.” 

For a long moment, a grand total of nothing happens. You squint as the limeblood finally turns around, diplomatic composure broken by a fit of temper. 

“ _Spiteful!_ ” He snarls at one of the packbeasts closest to him, and you stare as a shape you previously thought to be a bundle of cloth actually moves. Soon enough, it unfolds into a lanky, half-naked seadweller that sort of just groggily looks around him. You think it’s a seadweller, given the violet lines on his chest and what looks like a fin on the left side of his face. Between his horns falling at each side of his face and the distance, you’re not entirely sure. “Stop being a fuckin’ drunken waste of space and do your goddamn thing, you embarrassing excuse for a troll!” 

The seadweller - the Spiteful? - slides off the packbeast in a clumsy way, nearly landing on his face in the process. The entire right side of his body, or at least what you can see from the waistline of his pants up, is scarred and somewhat burnt. Even the tip of his right horn is missing. You and pretty much every rustblood stares at him in mild disbelief as he pulls out a gourd from a bag tied to the packbeast’s side, and proceeds to take a long gulp of it, uncaring of his audience. 

“What am I?” He snorts, giving the Dreamer a scathing look. “Your fucking trained bitch?” 

“No.” You stare in fascination as the Dreamer twirls his staff and slams it square between the seadweller’s horns, hard enough his knees buckle a little. He snarls. “Because if _I_ had fucking trained you, you _would_ actually do as you’re told, you stupid shithead!” 

You leap at them, axe at the ready. They’re making a mockery out of you and your people, and you will not let it end this way. If it must end, it will end in glory. In battle and gore and slaughter and the rustblood way. Your roar is quickly seconded by hundreds as the rest of your people instantly follow your lead. 

Except you choke on air, less than a second later, when all momentum is forcefully taken away from you. 

The seadweller’s eyes are glowing a bright violet, the same hue as the light wrapped around you and holding you firmly in place. A look at the side - and your eyes are the only thing you _can_ move - and you realize the rest of your people are caught much the same way. You feel a tendril of fear and unease curling in your gut. The fucking finfaced bastard is a psychic, and a really fucking powerful one, if he can stop your entire army so easily. 

“I like this one,” the Spiteful says after a moment, idly waving his hand and floating all your people to a single place. His grip doesn’t hurt, but that only scares you more. “She ain’t gonna take your shit lying down.” 

The Dreamer ignores him, staring at you in the eye. 

“I don’t _want_ to fight you,” he insists, earnest in a sickening way. “But I do need you. The entire fucking planet needs you. We’re not going to hurt you or your people, but we’re also not going away unless you’re coming with us. I’m not asking for an answer right this moment, Blacksmith. But we’ll be back.” And then his voice softens, with something ridiculous and disgusting and you want nothing more than to claw his stupid face off. “You’re the leader of your people, please do what’s best for them.” 

He turns around to leave then, taking his strange group of trolls with him. You and your people remain in the psychic hold until the last one of his trolls vacates the premises of the city. The moment you can move again, you stalk back to the forge. You ignore the questions and hisses and demands of trolls all around you. You lock the door behind you and go about lighting up the fire again. You’re molting and that makes you weak and vulnerable and breakable, but you’re so fucking pissed off you’re nearly vibrating with sheer anger. 

You reforge your axe four times before you make your decision. 

Then you reforge it one last time, just to procrastinate having to act out on it. 

** ※ **

He doesn’t take your leadership away. 

He treats you with respect and doesn’t attempt to boss you or your people around at all. In a way, it’s almost the same as before: nights traveling across the wasteland that is the world and days full of uneasy dreams in a pile of furs. But it _is_ different, there are others now. The other castes keep to themselves, but they’re _there_. Walking beside you and your own, too busy keeping up the pace to even try to start anything. They have been traveling together for long enough that they don’t seem disturbed, or maybe they have as much faith in their leaders as your people have in you. You know the only reason your rustbloods haven’t started any kind of slaughter is because they respect your decision and follow you on blind faith. 

It’s unnatural. 

You no longer take decisions on your own, but instead participate in a council with the other leaders. They all share a tent to which you were invited to - an invitation you refused scathingly - and they all defend the interests of their own people and try to solve any squabbles before they can even take form. You hate how much better they all are in this whole leadership business than you, all of them except maybe the brownblood. You hate how they look at you, asking for your input and your opinion before they decide on anything. You hate how much you wish you could just dump all your decision making on them and be just another rustblood again. But you can’t do that, so you do what any self-respecting rustblood would: you endure. 

The limeblood, the Dreamer, is a fucking infuriating piece of shit you still fantasize about chopping up with your axe every now and then. He’s so fucking serene and sure of himself, with real confidence, not the skin deep mockery you’ve cultivated for yourself. He’s the reason all of you are together, and yet he refuses to try and impose his will on you. Instead, he acts like some sort of mediator, using words and violence with such precision it makes you burn with jealousy. He always seems to know what to say and how and when, to keep the peace. His own people adore him, following his every word like gospel, but you suspect he’s earned the respect of most other trolls from other castes. The other leaders certainly respect him, in their own ways. 

The tealblood bitch, the Orator, seems to have some sort of sick fascination with the bastard, almost always taking his side in any discussion. She’s a puny thing, standing next to you, but there’s something in the way she speaks and carries herself that is naturally dignified and makes you feel clumsy inside your own skin. She seems to really fucking love the sound of her own voice, too, unable to speak unless it’s in a convoluted tangle of words that’s always at least six times more complicated than it fucking needs to be. You hate her fucking smug face and her fucking haughty manners and her fucking stupid asymmetrical horns so much that you swear you’ll break one of them one of these days. 

The greenblood, the Conductor, is her equal in arrogance but a complete opposite when it comes to manners. He’s quiet and sullen, and you’ve never heard him string more than six words together in a row. Any conversation involving him is like fucking pulling teeth. You hate the way he looks at you - and everyone, really, but you don’t give a flying fuck about the others - like you’re some kind of disgusting piece of shit he’s forcing himself to interact with because the alternative is worse. But what you hate even more is the way he treats his own people. There are about two dozen greenbloods in your little exodus, all of them psychics and all of them professional bootlickers who seemed to have been hatched for the specific purpose of wrapping their lips around the Conductor’s bulge. He orders them around like well-trained pets, and the way they fall all over themselves to make the stupid fucker happy sickens you to the marrow of your bones. 

In that respect, at least the indigoblood, the Scholar, is less infuriating. She has a flock of indigobloods who also seem to exist to kiss the ground she walks on, but she actively discourages them from it, at least. But the fucking bitch manages to piss you off anyway. Starting by the fact she manages what no other troll you’d ever known has ever been able to: she makes you feel fucking small just by standing near you. It’s not that she’s the first troll you’ve ever met that’s actually taller than you, despite the fact you are remarkably tall, but it’s the way she’s so effortlessly unruffled all the fucking time. And the fact she’s always, always watching. Everything. At least when the bitch isn’t whining about sleep or falling asleep in the middle of things. You swear she’s somehow mastered the art of falling asleep on command. You admit you could even like her, if you weren’t so determined to hate every single one of them. 

Some just make it easier than others, like the blueblood, the Conqueror. Starting by his title and his fucking cocky attitude, to his fucking showy weapons and his fucking melodramatic antics. You want to punch him just by looking at him. He’s always so loud and imprudent, acting as if everyone is hanging onto his every word, like the world can't go on without his fucking opinion on the subject. He’s usually too busy coddling his fucking kin to annoy you too much, and you suspect he might be scared of you, anyway, which is a nice thought to entertain. 

The brownblood, though... the brownblood you don’t know what to make of. He calls himself the Nurturer, but his own people call him the Chosen. Meanwhile, the rest of the leaders tend to bestow titles on him whenever he exhausts their patience, which is often: the Idiot, the Hopeless, the Insufferable, the Will-Be-Choked-To-Death-If-He-Doesn’t-Shut-Up. It’s almost like a game, some nights. As for the troll himself? He’s a fucking nutcase. He never really seems to be entirely _there_ , even when someone’s talking to him. He just stares at things with this half-lidded expression on his face that is quite possibly the single most stupid expression you’ve ever seen on any troll in your life, and hums about noncommittal replies to just about everything. Why is he the leader of his people is a mystery you might never unravel. But they don’t do anything unless he tells them to, so you’re stuck with him for the time being. 

And then, there’s Spit. His actual title is the Spiteful, the seadweller psychic powerhouse that pretty much forced your hand into submitting to the Dreamer’s crazed idea. But the Dreamer - and by extension everyone else - keeps mangling his title out of, well, _spite_. He’s the lone seadweller in your little troupe, usually keeping to himself. Most of the time drunk off his ass to boot. Where or how he gets his booze fix is something of a mystery, one the Dreamer in particular would very much like to solve. He’s the only troll capable of shattering his serene composure and the seadweller seems to delight in causing the prophet to dissolve into a screaming, frothing mess of profanity. You have to admit the fucker’s good at driving people crazy; spending most of his time either passed out on a packbeast, purposely ignoring others when they talk to him and then quipping unwanted insight about every little thing. Frankly, you’re pretty sure if he weren’t as powerful, there would be a riot as people fought over the right to end his miserable existence. Everything about him is bizarre. His horns are some kind of twisted monstrosity curling above his head before twisting down in a straight line at each side of his face, the right one about an inch shorter than the other one. He refuses to wear anything other than a worn pair of pants that look like they’re about to fall apart at the seams and a thin belt from which his swords hang listlessly. The entire right side of his body bears the scars of deep burns that will take several molts before disappearing, if ever. But worst of all, the infuriating son of a bitch has decided he _likes_ you, and he spends all the time he’s not passed out or pissing the Dreamer off making misguided attempts to be friends with you. 

You would sooner cut your own head off than make friends with a _seadweller_. Or any of these fuckers anyway. You don’t need to be their friend, though, and you won’t be. But the Dreamer is a prophet, the real deal, and as much as you hate to even contemplate the words, he might really deliver on his ridiculous pipe dream. At least there are some decent healers around, none of you are in danger of starving, surprisingly, and none of your rustbloods have died. All you want, in your heart of hearts, is for your people to find it in themselves to fix what was broken, the night the meteors ruined your lives. For them to go back to being one single, unified whole living in a perpetual orgy of violence and music and fucking and freedom. And maybe then you’ll get to quit this stupid leadership thing and go back to your forge where you belong. 

The thing that keeps you awake most days, staring at the ceiling of your tent and snarling at nothing, is the fact you might very well be starting to feel hope. 

** ※ **

“Most trolls collect useful things,” Spit tells you, riding on the packbeast and swaying as it moves, gourd carelessly held in one hand. “Swords, knives, poisons, incriminating letters. And even then, you know, most trolls grow out of collecting stupid junk when they’re what, six? Seven? Not our Dreamer, no. Our Dreamer is what, how old are you, motherfucker?” 

He tilts to the side, so much you wonder if he’s not using his powers to not fall off, staring at the troll leading the march. The Dreamer does not look up from where he’s talking to another limeblood and the Conductor, making a rude sign with the hand not holding onto his staff. 

“Eighty two and fuck off!” 

Spit laughs in that obnoxious way of his that seems to be waiting for you to join in on his laughter. You give him a withering glare instead. 

“Yeah, eighty fucking two sweeps old and he’s still collecting shit. But of course our precious prophet’s got to be special. He doesn’t collect things, no, he collects _trolls_. Ain’t that fucking cute?” 

“No,” you sneer at him, tossing your head and looking back to the rocky path ahead of you. “It’s not.” 

You wish you were with your people, marching in the back and closing up the line. It’s not proper, though. You’re a leader, you need to travel with the leaders. You envy the ease with which they fall into step with each other. It’s not the same ease as your people have with one another, because rustbloods don’t really care that much about individuality, but it’s close. They argue and bitch each other out, but in the perigees you’ve been with them, you’ve seen them grow closer to each other. The castes no longer keep that much distance between them, either, taking their cues from their leaders and slowly losing some of the innate hostility between them. Not to say that they don’t fight and squabble about every little fucking thing, because they do. They’re trolls, after all. But it’s almost as if they’ve forgotten they were once at war with each other for so long most don’t even remember why it started. Not your rustbloods, though. They still keep their distance, glowering and snarling, much like you do with the other leaders. 

“I guess not,” Spit mutters after a while, taking another generous gulp of his gourd, “but it could be cute if he at least could _make up his fucking mind about where we’re going!_ ” 

“Will you shut the fuck up?” The Dreamer snarls, stopping so that you and Spit’s packbeast can catch up with him. He falls into step with you, walking between you and the seadweller, all his attention focused on the son of a bitch. “I know what I’m doing!” 

“That only makes it worse,” Spit snaps back, easily and remorselessly, looking down at the prophet with a smile full of needle-sharp teeth. “It wasn't that hard to herd the other six, why is _this_ taking so fucking long?” 

“Because we need to meet someone else first!” The Dreamer hisses, temper flaring. “Just like I told you, before. You know, the other _thousand times_ you’ve bitched about it! You would remember if you didn’t fucking drink yourself into a goddamn stupor all the fucking time!” 

You watch them snap at each other with a familiarity and ease that you find repulsive. It’s so painfully obvious that they’re black for each other, and yet, few taboos are so universal to all castes as taking a troll from another bloodcolor as a quadrant. Moirallegiance and Auspisticism were once tolerated on the grounds of alliances and treaties in other nations, though not by rustbloods. But Matespritships and Kismesissitudes that crossed the boundaries of bloodcaste are not, have not and will never be seen as anything other than an aberration. 

“They’re kind of gross when they get going, aren’t they?” The Scholar muses quietly, and you don’t startle out of sheer will, when she all but materializes at your side. 

You look up at her for a moment before snorting and shaking your head. She too, much like Spit, continues to make incessant attempts to foster some kind of friendship with you. At least her, however, has a clear motive that you can almost respect. She’s a recordkeeper, she’s curious about the life rustbloods led, before the Great Catastrophe. Your people have always been isolated and distant from others, to the point most of what other castes known about yours is myth. 

“It’s disgraceful,” you mutter snidely, taking on a brisk pace to leave the two arguing behind you. “It’s what it is.” 

“I think it’s kind of fascinating, actually,” the Scholar goes on, looking up at the sky with that half-lidded, perpetually sleepy expression of hers. “In the same way watching someone get gutted is. It’s horrible and disturbing and kind of really fucking gross, but you can’t look away. Plus,” and then she leans over to make a show to tell you this, “I’m not even sure how it’d even work, since... you know, Spit’s half-fish.” 

You choke back a bark of laughter and force it into a dry snort instead. It infuriates you that she has figured out how to make you laugh so well, in such a short amount of time. It’s been a really long time, since you last laughed and meant it. Maybe if you didn’t have the weight of your people’s lives on your back, you would be more willing to join in their jeering and sniping. But if you didn’t have your people’s well-being on your shoulders, they wouldn’t give you the time of the day. You hate the conflicted emotions that constantly turn into frustrations, clogging up your mind. 

“Rustbloods like to fuck, Scholar,” you mutter at her, half baring your fangs. “That doesn’t mean we like to hear about others fucking.” 

She blinks innocently. 

“But isn’t that the whole point of an orgy?” 

You let out a sharp _ha!_ in reply to that, and relent by giving her the snarling smile you know she’s after. She smiles back at you, rather pleased with herself at the fact she made you stop brooding, and the two of you continue walking in silence. You still hate her. You still hate all of them. This is the one comfort you still cling to, every day as you curl up and prepare to sleep and dream of screaming and rage. 

But it’s been nearly a half a sweep, and you’re a rustblood; you’re nothing if not adaptive. 

** ※ **

You’ve never cared much about geography, but according to the maps the Dreamer keeps showing you, tomorrow you will reach the meeting point with this mystery troll he’s so worked up about. You stare in disinterest at the maps, old things scrapped together from all the various trolls that form your... your what? What are you all, really? What do you call a group of several hundred trolls of various castes traveling the world to follow one prophet’s crazy designs? You figure one day the word will come to you. Around the maps lying on the ground, the others sit comfortably, eating the last remnants of their dinner and sharing some weird tealblood drink made of water and boiled fruit your resident brownblood plant-brain moron grew for you. You look around the tent, digging your teeth into some nicely roasted meat, and are suddenly struck with the resemblance this has to the old days, long, long ago, when you were but an apprentice to the previous Blacksmith. The more you think about it, the more the horrifying realization sinks in, until you’re not really looking at them, but at your fellow apprentices, all of them dead sweeps and sweeps ago. You choke on your meal, coughing up an airsack. 

“You’ll live?” The Conductor, sitting at your right, peers at you over the rim of his cup, disdainful, while the Scholar vigorously slaps your back, trying to help you dislodge the stray piece of meat stuck somewhere in your windpipe. 

“That’d be one hell of a stupid way to die,” the Conqueror chirps in, laughing loudly as he leans from across the maps to stare at you. “I mean, you’re this giant, killing machine, and suddenly you die choked on dinner? I can’t think of a worst way to die!” 

You glare at him as you finally swallow, snarling as you prepare to deliver a retort, when Spit’s slurring voice comes from where he’s sprawled by the corner. 

“I can,” and the seadweller grins at you with all his teeth, his fin flaring behind his horn, as every head in the tent turns to look at him in various degrees of exasperation. You groan, watching him relishing in the attention. “You could die mid _fuck_.” 

“Don’t be crass.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, shut up!” 

“No way, that’s not why they call it the little death, you freak!” 

“Spit!” 

In the ensuing argument, you quietly slip out of the tent, ignoring the Scholar’s sharp look. So you don’t actively threaten gruesome violence upon her person every time she talks to you, that doesn’t mean she’s somehow entitled to judge you. Fuckers. You wince at the light outside, and move to the edge of the cave, sidestepping various trolls sprawled on the ground, whimpering and caught in their day terrors. The cave was large enough to house the entire group, packbeasts included, and it’s warm out enough that most didn’t bother with tents. The leaders have to, though. It’s a symbol, and both Spit and the Scholar have lectured you enough about the need for symbols in times like these. You make your way to the entrance of the cave, covering your eyes with one arm as the scorching sunlight outside makes it almost impossible to see anything. You’re careful to stay within the protective shadow of the cave’s roof, though. No need to get yourself a nice set of burns by trying out the sunlight first hand. 

“It is inevitable.” 

You nearly slip out when the quiet monotone reaches your ears. You whirl around, ready to strike, when you find a thin, small woman standing a few feet back. There’s something about her that strikes you as odd and unnatural, though you can’t put your finger on it. Her horns are massive spirals on her head and her hair is long enough to touch her ankles, though only the two front bangs. Her dress is a bright green that matches no bloodcolor you know off, but what instantly catches your attention is her eyes, and the small sign sewn over her breast. She’s a rustblood, one you’ve never seen before in your life. 

“Change,” she goes on, staring at you with an intense, yet oddly unemotional expression on her face. “It is truly inevitable, Blacksmith of the Rustbloods. You can either oppose it and die, or embrace it and adapt. You know this, Daughter and Mother of my Caste. It will never be as it was before.” 

“Who are you?” You demand, unnerved. 

No rustblood has ever spoken to you that way. Not even before you took leadership of your people. It’s both familiar and distant and you feel yourself fill up with a yearning you can’t name. 

“My Lady Demoness,” the Dreamer says, as he steps from the shadows. “Welcome.” You’ve never seen him act so cold and reserved before. Then he turns to you, smiling thinly. “My friend, may I introduce to you, the Demoness, Handmaid of Death?” 

The rustblood offers a hollow smile. 

“She knows not who I am, Prophet. But I know her all too well. I know _all_ of you exceedingly well.” Her face falls into that same indifferent expression again. “You need direction, Seer of Dreams.” 

“Your wisdom has a price, Harbinger of Doom.” 

There’s a tension in the air you can’t quite place. Something that makes your skin crawl. You look from one to the other, half wondering, half afraid to even ask. You don’t remember ever feeling afraid in the way you do now. The Handmaid smiles. 

“So it does,” she turns to look at you. For a moment, you are almost certain she is giving you a look of pity. But it passes too soon for you to really grasp it. She turns back to the Dreamer. “But it has already been paid. Seek out the purpleblood first, then the goldblood. When the Council of the Ten has gathered, She will come to you.” 

“Like in my visions, then,” and there’s a cutting irony you don’t understand, in the Dreamer’s smile. 

“Like in your visions, Prophet.” And then she bows to each of you, deep and servile. It looks wrong, somehow. “It has been done, we will not meet again. Farewell, Seer of Dreams, Daughter and Mother of my Caste.” 

The Dreamer bows to her, though you are too stunned to react. 

“Farewell, Harbinger of Doom, my Lady Demoness.” 

And then, in a crack of white and green, the rustblood is gone without a trace. You let go of a breath you had not been aware you’d been holding. 

“Who--” 

“The most dangerous creature in all history, my friend,” the Dreamer says, reaching out to hold your arm and tug you back towards the tent. “No one at all.” He lets go of you when you start walking of your own volition. “Come, we should tell the others we know where to go now.” 

You bite your tongue to keep from asking. You have many questions to ask, but you need to first determine whether you truly want those answers, and who should you ask in the first place. You sit in your place in the circle, and listen to the words exchange, notice the lack of mention of the mysterious rustblood, and ponder in silence. You tune out the conversation as soon as it moves onto more trivial matters, staring intently at the drink in your cup. You can feel the Scholar’s gaze weighting on your shoulders, but you ignore it once more. 

You have much to think about. 

** ※ **

“What he keeps trying to ask,” Spit snaps from where he’s lying on his packbeast, not even bothering to look up, “is when was the last time you had a real good fuck.” 

There’s a long moment of stunned silence all across the plains. The purpleblood pack is large, and each of them looks deadly and ready to fight. They still don’t outnumber you, but purplebloods were once notorious for being extremely hard to kill. The only nation that ever stood a chance to fight them on even ground were the goldbloods. And you don’t have any goldbloods around to help out take out nearly a hundred purplebloods. You’re not sure even with Spit’s powers you can win decisively. 

And then, while you’re trying to guess where the first strike is coming from, their leader breaks down laughing. 

He’s a monstrous thing, nearly twice your size and considerably taller than the Scholar, the largest troll among your group. And he’s laughing so hard he fell on his ass, howling in amusement. There’s a very awkward silence on all fronts, as the rest of your group quietly wonder what the fuck is going on, while the purplebloods give you all sullen glares as if wondering why you had to go and _break_ their leader. 

“Oi, I _like_ that guy!” The purpleblood cackles still, pointing a claw at Spit. “Why the fuck ain’t _he_ the one in charge?” 

The Dreamer makes a rather unappealing noise and very nearly chokes on, well, spit. 

“Bah! I’ve been asking the same thing for sweeps!” The seadweller cackles back, raising to give everyone the single most infuriating shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Well, you can count me in to back you up, finface,” the purpleblood shoots back, easily rolling back to his feet. “When do we leave?” 

There’s another of those precious moments full of awkward silence you’ve come to get used to. 

“...that’s it?” The Dreamer croaks, incredulous. 

“What, is there some sort of ceremonial shit we need to go through?” The purpleblood looks confused and mildly annoyed. “Can’t I just give you my title and be done with it? Reckless of the Purplebloods. There.” 

You’ve never in your life met a troll who fit his title so perfectly. You stare in fascination as the Dreamer splutters some more and Spit cackles gleefully. The purplebloods, you notice, look resigned but not particularly bothered by the situation. The rest of your little group is somewhat caught in the same state of utter disbelief. The Conqueror is staring with his maw hanging open, while the Conductor is quietly rubbing his temples with the index fingers of both hands. The Scholar is facepalming and the Orator is hiding what has to be a smirk behind one of her fans. And the Nurturer is staring into his little pouch of seeds. 

“No, I mean, that’s it?” The Dreamer insists, looking up at the Reckless with wide eyes. “I mean, just. When are we leaving, that’s it? No fighting? No bargains? No questions? Aren’t you fucking going to threaten to scalp me and use my bones to make a xylophone?” At that, for the first time ever, you hear the Conductor snicker. Despite the enormity of the revelation that he does, in fact, possess something resembling a sense of humor, it doesn’t hold a candle to the expression on the Dreamer’s face. “That’s _it_?” 

The purpleblood scratches his head at the base of his horns, then shrugs nonchalantly. 

“Pretty much, yeah.” 

You get the sinking feeling things are about to get a lot more hectic, a lot more often. 

** ※ **

You’re glad you’ve long given up on trying to make sense of the things the Dreamer does or says. 

He is a prophet, he knows the way things should go, and usually how to get around making them to go the way he wants them to. The handful of limebloods with him provide support in various ways, often guiding you towards food or fresh water or away from unpleasant encounters with either wild animals or other groups of survivors. Some of them you meet, and some of them actually join you, finding solace in the fact there are others from their caste among you. In fact, the only cast not properly represented among you is precisely the goldbloods. Sometimes the thought assaults you, how a hundred sweeps ago, the idea of trolls from all castes coexisting together was a laughable impossibility at best, treacherous nonsense at worse. And yet, here they are, right before you. Even your implaccable rustbloods have begun to mingle... somewhat. A little. Mostly they don’t threaten to rip people apart just for treading into their side of camp. 

_You can either oppose it and die, or embrace it and adapt._

The rustblood way is survival. 

So after he went through all that fucking trouble to go into the goldblood capital and gain audience with the Administrators, you don’t bother to ask why he’s now ordering you all to prepare to leave at dusk tomorrow. You shrug your shoulders and saunter over to where your rustbloods are chatting by the fires, preparing for dinner. You take a moment to study the way they move, the way they talk to each other, the way they look far more at ease with themselves than you have seen them in sweeps. You grin at the lot of them and sit among them to eat. You don’t care about symbols and signs and leadership. They’re _happy_. Or, perhaps more accurately, they’re hopeful. Hope was a thing the sweeps had stolen from them, and the Dreamer and his crazy scheme has given it back to them. In the spirit of hope, you join your kin for a very subdued, yet strangely meaningful meal. They’re nowhere near as loud as they should be, but maybe they’ll get there yet. Maybe you haven’t failed them yet. When you make your way to the leader’s tent, the sun is already rising in the distance. 

“Light?” The Orator is saying, just as you enter. “You expect me to believe _light_ did this?” 

“Nonsense,” the Conductor snarls disdainfully, eyes narrowed. 

You’re about to ask what they’re talking about, when you finally notice two things: the Reckless isn’t present, and there’s a minuscule troll sitting next to the Scholar. The angle almost made you miss her. Seriously, that kid - it has to be a kid, you were that size when you were what, _six_? - is tiny. She’s also devouring a piece of meat with ferocity you’d usually associate to the missing purpleblood. 

“Not light but something _like_ light. Radiation.” She points at the Conductor with a long bone still half covered in meat, ignoring the way the greenblood grimaced at her manners. “We discovered it and all sorts of pretty nifty energy waves about a hundred and twenty sweeps ago? Kinda? Give or take a decade. The point is, _as usual_ , since it didn’t really have any military applications at the time, the Administrations threw it to the backburner. Some of us liked to play and experiment with them, and then when the sky shat on us fiery turds of doom, all our toys went crazy. Not that I was there to see it, mind. But they told me when I finally got home. Anyway, yes. Fucking radiation. Of course, we presented the evidence to the Administrators, and now we’ve been wasting away trying to find a way to fix it. Except there isn’t one.” 

“I believe there is one,” the Dreamer interjects, before the expressions in the room can darken appropriately. 

“Yeah, yours. Yours might work, actually. But I mean, there’s no fucking way we, the Designers, could figure out a way to fucking fix this mess. But the Administrators are kinda hung up on the idea and won’t listen to reason. And that’s why they spent half an hour laughing at your expense. Sorry, Dreamlord.” Then she turns to look at you. “Who’s the hot lady that’s glaring at me and please tell me her black quadrant is open.” 

You snarl at her as Spit starts cackling again, somewhere in the background. 

“Ah, Blacksmith,” the Dreamer, ever the diplomat, interferes as the Scholar ever so casually slaps a hand on the small troll’s mouth. “I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced. This is the Architect of the Goldbloods--” 

The Scholar lets out a painful yelp as the little thing bites down on her hand hard enough her lips are tained blue with blood. She gives you a grin full of fangs. 

“S’up, hot lady.” 

You narrow your eyes to slits. 

“...yes, er. Architect, this is the Blacksmith of the Rustbloods. Please don’t make her tear you in half with her bare hands.” 

The little _shit_ has the nerve to laugh. 

“I’m all up for some fucking fun if she wants to try! But I was mostly kidding. I’ve already got a kismesis. Doesn’t really hold a candle up to you, though.” 

“I’m surprised the entire goldblood population isn’t in your black quadrant, Architect,” you find yourself muttering snidely, and unintentionally causing the Conqueror to choke on his own laughter. 

The goldblood gives you a wide-eyed stare and shrugs, unruffled. 

“Not for lack of trying, let me tell you. I bet there’s gonna be a fucking national holiday tomorrow, to mourn the fact I left.” 

You sincerely doubt it. But you get the feeling, much to your irritation, that you’re not going to get very far, trying to argue with her. The way she’s grinning at you, looks like she thinks the same. You twitch and move over to sit in your usual place - which is where she’s sitting, but fuck that, you purposely nearly sit on her. The end result isn’t quite what you expected. The nimble troll squirmed out of the way - and into the Scholar’s lap, who choked on air, and then into the _Conqueror_ ’s lap and oh, you know that can’t be good, the way they both blinked at each other and _grinned_. 

“Will you cease the obscenities,” the Conductor grouses darkly, not even bothering to make that a question. 

“Fine,” the goldblood snorts, rolling her eyes and finally sitting on her own place like a mildly civilized troll. You still have your doubts about the whole civilized thing, though. “Can I have my meat back? Seriously, I’m starv---hang on.” She blinks and the Dreamer seems to tense unnaturally. You pick at your dinner as the mood in the tent shifts gears so hard you can almost hear it. “Didn’t you say there were nine trolls I had to meet?” 

The rest of you join the Dreamer in a very unsubtle flinch. 

“Ah, yes. About that...” 

** ※ **

You don’t get it. 

You stare at them as pretty much everyone but the Dreamer and the purplebloods does. The Dreamer isn’t staring because he’s marching ahead of them, on purpose, you think. The purplebloods don’t stare because they’ve been serving the Reckless for longer than your own rustbloods have been serving you and you think they’re completely inured to any crazed, poorly thought out thing their master does. But the rest of you? Hell yeah, you’re staring. Even Spit, who has an obnoxious remark about every single fucking thing, has no words to offer. 

You don’t _get_ it. 

Ahead of you, a few feet behind the Dreamer, the Reckless walks forward in his usual slouch. The novelty is the goldblood sitting on his shoulder, talking to him in a quiet, snarky whisper and occasionally making the giant troll cackle. 

You _don’t_ get it. 

It really bears repeating, how much you don’t fucking get it. Goldbloods and purplebloods have been at war for more than nine hundred sweeps. Even after the meteors came, they still kept on trying to one-up each other. The Dreamer made the Reckless stay behind, when he went to plead his case to the Administrators, because he knew the purpleblood wouldn’t have walked out of the goldblood capital alive. 

They’re fucking natural enemies. 

They should be tearing at each other’s throats and attempting to violently slaughter one another. Not talking and laughing and touching one another with enough fucking pale undertones to make your stomach turn. For one, it’s disgusting. For another, it’s disturbing. 

You really, _really_ don’t get it. 

The Architect mutters something that makes the Reckless crack up so hard he nearly toples her off her perch. He grabs her with a hand that’s nearly the size of her entire torso and quickly settles her back again. And all the while, she’s laughing her ass off. 

To be perfectly honest, you’re not sure you _want_ to get it. 

What if it’s contagious? 

** ※ **

The sheer unabridged horror of the Reckless and the Architect’s quasi-moirallegiance aside, it’s nearly six perigees of what passes off as peace as far as your not-so little group is concerned. A pack of goldbloods have joined you, just as the Architect promised, though they do _not_ share her reaction to most purplebloods. They were distant and somewhat feral for a while, and they reminded you of your rustbloods until you looked at them side by side and realized your rustbloods are by now pretty much completely entangled with the other castes in that weird coexistence thing that you’ve all got going on here. 

And then, one night, the Dreamer stops abruptly. 

The effect would be funny, if it didn’t involve so much swearing, as more than a thousand trolls scramble to stop without running all over each other. Your rustbloods and the purplebloods, who always close the convoy, are the worst off. At least no one dies. You’re about to demand what the hell is the Dreamer’s deal, when he shrugs at you. 

“Here.” 

“Here what, Dreamer?” The Scholar asks, not able to take the irritation of her voice. 

“Here, we’re going to build a city.” He waits a moment, as his audience rearranges itself around him, all trolls coming close to listen to his words. “This will be _our_ city, and it we will wait.” 

“Wait for what?” A voice asks, from somewhere in the crowd, but it’s impossible to say where exactly. 

“Who,” the Dreamer corrects. “When the city is built, She will come. Our savior from the depths.” 

“That’s all well and good,” the Conqueror interjects, scowling, “But--” 

“This is seadweller land,” the Nurturer interrupts. “The quiet ones don’t like them, though.” He smiles that dreamy smile of his that makes you shiver with unease. “They will gladly help you run them out.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” the limeblood says, and for the first time since you met him, you see true, sadistic malice in his expression. “It so happens that the owner of these lands is a friend of mine, he will give them gladly.” 

Before you can ask, Spit snorts. 

“I wouldn’t call you friend, landbred bastard,” he snarls at the Dreamer in one of those disgustingly black displays of theirs. “But you’re just fucking lucky I hate my father’s house more than I hate you. Settle in, fuckers, we’re here for the long haul.” 

What follows is the Spiteful hurling himself into the air, and then into the sea. And then nothing. The Dreamer urges everyone along into preparing camp as the night is ending and the sun is likely to rise soon. And then, while you’re halfway done preparing for the day, the sea burns violet, with the familiar hue of the Spiteful’s psychic powers. The lightshow lasts a while, but eventually dies out. The next night, it happens again, several times. And the night after that, and the night after _that_. The Dreamer doesn’t let anyone linger too much on it, instead urging everyone to start preparing to build. The blueprints of the city are made out of a collage from prophecies and dreams and visions from the limebloods, as well as suggestions from everyone else. There’s an odd urgency in the prophet that you are surprised to realize you recognize as something unusual in him. When did you become so well-versed in the moods and wants of the other leaders? You’re not entirely certain, but whenever you reconsider your situation, the Handmaid’s words echo inside your skull. They’re not rustbloods and you don’t treat them like rustbloods. But they’re familiar to you, now. You’ve grown to know them well and now, you find with dread that you have also grown to trust them. You throw yourself into the construction work and ignore the way the Scholar gives you disapproving looks every now and then. 

The Spiteful emerges from the depths perhaps nine days later, though it’s hard to recognize him. For one, he’s dressed in clothes that don’t look like they’re going to fall apart at the smallest breeze. For another, his hair is actually combed and braided. A commitive of seadwellers comes with him, the inhabitants of the city built below the rocky cliffs that surround the tiny beach. The Dreamer looks particularly unimpressed with the display. The Spiteful takes perhaps five minutes to order the other seadwellers into helping out with the construction work, two to decapitate the one that protested helping “landbred scum”, and then dives right into a giant, snarky argument with the Dreamer about the city, the blueprints, the weather and the Dreamer’s hair. It’s loud and bitchy and - you admit very grudgingly, very quietly and very disgustedly - a perfect display of strong-burning black hate. You tune them out, as you’ve long learned how, and give into your work with fierce determination and something almost like enjoyment. 

Somehow, rumor runs around about the city and the odd group of trolls building it, and while you work on specifications that sometimes change from one night to the next, as the Dreamer updates them according to his visions, more trolls arrive. Sometimes a few, sometimes in larger numbers. They are screened by the limebloods, particularly the Dreamer’s mother and her terrifying power to read intentions and memories out of objects. And the ones that aren’t immediately slaughtered - a task your rustbloods and the purplebloods share gleefully - are made to swear an oath and join the others of their caste. More and more trolls come, and in half a sweep, the city starts to take shape more consistently. 

You and the other leaders are known as the Council of the Ten. It’s not just your rustbloods that obey your command without a second thought anymore. You and the other nine are now the only authorities all the trolls in the city know and recognize. Even the bitchiest seadwellers have been brought to heel by Spit and the Dreamer working in tandem to demoralize them into submission. There are accidents, sometimes. Trolls die, sometimes. But it’s no longer a terrible disaster you don’t know how to handle. A sweep after you first arrived here, you have the core of the city and the beginnings of a fortified wall surrounding it nearly done. Five sweeps later, there are waterways and drains and all sorts of strange things the Architect comes up with and talks the Dreamer into adding to the design. Eight sweeps later, the population of the city is nearly of six thousand, and the last districts are finally being built. 

Ten sweeps after the Dreamer’s proclamation, the city is deemed complete. 

More than ten thousand trolls now call it home. They have organized as best as they can, trading and hunting and even growing edible plants with the Nurturer’s blessing. There’s a busy market every third day and people have finally moved on from procuring the bare essentials into creating luxuries again. You’re walking by a plaza, inspecting the walls, when you hear a song you’d long forgotten and you find a trio of rustbloods playing music to a mixed group of trolls. You leave before they notice you, letting them enjoy themselves without having to question whether it’s proper or not for them to do so. You don’t honestly know anymore. The rustblood way is survival. Long ago, before the meteors, survival meant isolation. Now... now perhaps it doesn’t have to be. It’s not the same as it used to be, and you understand it’ll never _be_ what it used to be anymore. You _finally_ understand. 

Ten sweeps after the first stone was placed, the Dreamer gathers you all and leads you down the long stairs and corridors that connect the house of the Ten, where you all live and which serves a seat of power for your government, with the small beach he stubbornly refused to change one bit. The pink moon is gone from the sky, but the green one is glowing and full. The Dreamer says nothing as you all stand on the sand, staring at the sea. You stand there for what seems like eons, listening to the faint murmur echoing down the rocky walls and carrying the sound of the busy city behind you. No one says anything, no one dares to. What is there to say? It has been sweeps of hard work and dangers and fights. Before that, there were sweeps upon sweeps of hunger and fear and pain. You worked for this. You fought for this. If the meteors ended the world, all those sweeps ago, the Dreamer promises tonight you will all give the first step into a new beginning. 

And then, perhaps an hour before dawn, the tips of two horns break the surface of the water, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly wrote this entire thing in one sitting. I think I'm never doing that again, it's not good for my sanity. 
> 
> Next chapter, Condesce comes along to make a racket and the Dreamer gets around telling everyone how exactly he's going to "fix" this mess.


	5. Violet ℵ Companion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The naming of the Nameless.

** Violet ℵ Companion **

Boy, but do you sure love bossing people around.

To be fair, it’s not a privilege that you’ve enjoyed in a very long time. You’re nearly seven hundred sweeps old, and the last time anyone looked at you with something vaguely like respect, you were fourteen. It’s a thrill that will take a long time to lose its shine on you, you think. You were not named on a whim; you are the most spiteful son of a bitch you’ve ever met. You do not forget slights, you do not forgive mistakes. And since you’ve gone and proven that you also won’t just _die_ , you have always had enough time to execute your schemes and eventually get even. It doesn’t matter if those who slighted you are long gone, you _remember_ and that’s enough. You remember like you never forgot that day, hundreds of sweeps ago, when your dearly beloved father saw fit to sell you to another nation in a mock attempt to secure an alliance. You knew, almost from the moment it happened, that he just wanted to remove you from the line of succession. Your powers were cute little tricks, then, but not fitting of a future king. So he sold you to be the advisor and companion of an ally of his that you were pretty sure was supposed to figure out a way of culling you.

Except you didn’t die.

You didn’t die in the decades you served that man, nor when his children rose to power, nor when their children replaced them in turn. You became some sort of amusing conversation piece, an advisor no one listened to and no one could remember _not_ being there before. A perpetual source of unsolicited council that always went unheard, but you still remembered where you came from. You still knew who you were, what your birthright was. You stopped wearing your sign, though. They never asked you to, or even cared to notice. But they died and you didn’t, and then you realized it would be best if they didn’t remember anything at all. So you gradually stopped using your sign, until they forgot it. Until you became little more than furniture in their eyes.

The sweeps passed, and still you didn’t die.

Then the meteors came. And with them, the Dreamer. He found you, nearly dying. He tended to you and told you you were welcome to die if you wanted. Out of spite, you lived on. Out of spite, you followed him. Out of spite, you hated him. You were the first one he found, the one who was always, always there. Even to this day, you are the closest one, and not just because you hate him still. You hate his horns and his smug smiles and the way his eyes dance when he’s mocking someone. You hate his hands, unmarred by blood. You hate the way he leans on you sometimes, and how you lean back, in turn. You hate how without him your vengeance on your father would have never come to be. He chose your lands - yours, not your father’s, because your father died, but you didn’t - to build his city. He gave you a chance to come home, more than six hundred sweeps after you left it. He gave you the pleasure of reclaiming your sign and making your father’s proud people into your own. He gave you vengeance, and you might never stop hating him for that.

As you stand on the beach, waiting for the arrival he prophesied, you contemplate how much and how little has changed, since you were a young, spoiled prince in the depths. From what the Dreamer has told you about his visions, things will change even more. You think you’ll enjoy those changes, as well.

Then, about an hour before dawn, with the green moon hanging full and low in the distance, the tips of two horns break the surface, quickly followed by a head and a neck and shoulders and soon enough, there’s a woman stepping into the sand, clad only in foam and hair. There’s something terribly striking about her that you can’t quite place, something regal and dignified in the way she stands before you all. You hear the Blacksmith gasp and feel the tension in the air as no one dares say a thing. Not even the Dreamer. You drink in the sight of her, the elegant curve of her horns - and those are some fucking horns, too, probably as long as the Reckless’ - and the unfamiliar hue of the gills on her neck and along her ribs. The faded scar on her skin only accents the fact the rest of it is flawless. Her hair sticks to it, forming uneven curls against her back and her shoulders.

It bothers you, the way they stare at her. It bothers you in a quiet, deadly way and before you’re entirely sure why, you’re stepping forward, reaching for her.

“Spit--”

“Suck my fucking bulge,” you snarl over your shoulder, throwing an arm around her and pushing her back to the sea. “It can wait.”

The most amazing thing is, she lets you. She sweeps her gaze over the trolls lined up on the shore, and then looks up at you with a mix of curiosity and detachment, but she lets you pull her back into the sea. From up close, her eyes are a hue you’ve never seen before, too warm for a seadweller. You flash her a grin as you hear the Dreamer scream at you, chase after you, but by then you’re sinking under the waves and feeling a strange sort of euphoria in your veins.

“And now?” She asks, fins flaring prettily at each side of her face. “Mother said I should meet those who’ve been waiting for me in the surface.”

There’s something musical in her voice, a note of amusement that manages something no one has done in almost forever: make you feel _almost_ embarrassed. You’ve spent nearly fifty sweeps on land, pretending to be drunk off your ass just so you could irritate people and have enough water at your disposal without anyone bitching about it. You spent those same sweeps traveling pretty much like a homeless, signless, castless fuck. And now that you’ve come into your inheritance, you start to feel embarrassed. You offer her a wry grin as you motion for her to follow you. You think you’ll blame the embarrassment on her, rather than any real fault on your part.

“Oh, you’ll meet them alright, darling,” you turn to the rockside before you can come in sight of the city itself, and you wonder how it was possible that no one saw her coming. “All of them, but they can wait until tomorrow.”

You smile as she hums at you, noncommittal. There’s a very deceptive looking opening in the rocks. The water and the perspective causes it to look like a dead end, but you know it’s not. You’ve always been amused to notice that no one else seems to have found your little hideout. Then again, the labyrinth of tunnels in the rock are hard to navigate in the dim light. You notice she doesn’t hesitate a moment to follow you, and you wonder if she can see in the dark better than you. You’re moving more out of muscle memory than anything else, by now. Still, after a few minutes through the maze, you find yourself surfacing into a large room with its own pocket of air. This is your home, the one you missed while you were away, not the seadweller citadel your kinsmen still mistakenly believe you live in. These are the memories you cherish, the few things left of a time when you could honestly say you didn’t really mind your propensity to _not_ die.

“Why should it wait?” She asks you, as she breaks the surface behind you, but there’s no real reproach in her voice.

“For one, because you’re naked and Dreamer has been waiting at least ten sweeps to question you until your fins fall off, darling. But it’s really more like his _entire life_. You might as well get dressed for that.” You throw her an amused look over your shoulder, but find her staring at you, puzzled frown on her face. “For another, because if you come from as far away as he says you do, you could probably use some rest and a meal before that happens, don’t you think?”

There’s something disturbingly fearless in the way she moves, peering curiously at the various objects littering the little cave. It takes you a moment to realize that’s exactly what it is: she’s not afraid. It’s different from the Reckless or the Blacksmith, who face anything coming their way with that stupid bloodthirsty grin and their weapons raised. It’s something far deeper. The closest thing you can think of is the certainty with which the Dreamer talks about his visions and his dreams, but even in him, that kind of sentiment fades after a moment. In her, it seems to be a basic component of her personality. It’s like she’s never known fear of any kind in her entire life.

“Ah,” she says, studying the tapestry hanging from the wall, an old thing with your family’s sign weaved on it. She fingers the edges, as if the texture were entirely new to her. “I suppose the concerns about clothing haven’t died off. I don’t have any, though.” She looks at you with an elegant shrug, folding her arms under the swell of her breasts. There’s a ghost of sullenness in her voice as she adds: “Never really saw the point.”

“I don’t suppose you did,” you shoot back in a nice enough tone, grinning at her. It sounds like the truth, from the way she moves. Most trolls you know would wilt at least a little at their own nudity, it makes you all feel exposed and vulnerable somehow. But there’s nothing vulnerable about her, nothing out of control. “But that’s partly why we’re here.”

The Dreamer has his dreams to guide him, but you’ve always had something else, as far as you can remember. A tingle of intuition, not unlike the Reckless’ sixth sense for danger. Just a pressing urge to do this or that, or open your mouth and get yourself in trouble. You’re nearly seven hundred sweeps old, and you don’t really look much older than forty. You’ve learned to listen to your gut and go with the flow. When you first saw her, standing there in the shore, you felt the tug. As you hold the fabric in your hands, you feel it again. It’s almost how you felt, when you chose to follow the Dreamer, except you have no black feelings for her. Or red or pale, either.

“Why?” She asks, standing before you with that same fearless ease of hers that rattles you and makes you want to stand close and bask in it.

“Because I won’t have them make an spectacle out of you,” you say, offering the bundle of cloth to her, watching her touch the slightly oily surface curiously, and quietly cataloging the minute changes in her expression as she does. “Call it seadweller sympathy, if you want.”

“I am not from your caste,” she murmurs, examining the outfit you’ve offered her. She sounds like she’s repeating something she’s heard before, rather than something she believes in with any sort of conviction.

Then she pushes the fabric back to your hands and turns her back to you, arms reaching to raise her mess of hair away from her skin. You take a moment to arch an eyebrow at the gesture, before you snort and begin wrapping the cloth around her.

“So you’re not. But you’ve got gills and fins,” which you happen to brush against as you tie the straps of the shirt behind her. “As far as I care, that makes you one of _us_.” Your fin flares up again, pressing against your horn and making the rings at the spikes jingle a little. “That means I ought to look out for you too, darling.”

She lets her hair fall, turning to look at you as she tugs on the shirt, an old, well preserved piece one of your sisters wore the day she died. It’s solid black, without any accents of a hue not her own. Your sister always wore her sign and her caste on a shawl; you don’t offer her the violet cloth, though. That would be insulting, you think. She frowns at you, fingering the edge where the shirt ends and the skin of her thighs begins.

“My name is not Darling,” she says, looking up at you with those strange eyes of hers, too pinkish to be violet, like yours. 

“I’d be really surprised if it were,” you snort, sliding down to one knee so you can nudge her into the pants you’re offering her.

“I don’t really have a name,” she goes on, quietly letting you dress her and fixing the clothes until she looks like a broken mirage of your favorite sibling. That and the surprising declaration startle you long enough you don’t flinch when she places her hand on face, feeling the remnants of what once was a near deadly scar. “Or not one you could pronounce, I think. What happened to your face?”

No one’s ever really asked before. The Dreamer already knew when he met you, the bastard. Everyone else? They’re probably afraid of you actually answering. Which you would, and they know it too. You grin at her.

“It’s a funny story,” you say, reaching a hand to casually push some of her hair off her face. “I kind of caught a meteor face first.” You arch both eyebrows and snort. “The meteor won, though.”

She fingers the remnants of your fin, where the skin melded together into the rest of your face. You don’t really feel her touch, but the way she reacts to the texture of your skin is fascinating. Even if you take your whimsical nature out of the picture, and how much you resent that seadwellers are such a gross minority, and how much you enjoy pissing off the Dreamer, and how your gut feeling has yet to fail you... even taking all that out of the picture, there’s something that’s terrible and alluring about her. Something in her utter lack of fear, the ease with which she moves, that calls to you and makes you pay attention.

“That’s not funny,” she decides after a moment, pulling her fingers away to smooth the fabric over her skin, over and over.

That’s it, you think, in a short moment of lucid clarity as you both miss her touch already and are thankful that it’s gone. She’s at ease with herself and the world and her place in it. She’s not asking or wanting for anything. She’s _free_ , in ways you can’t really understand but feel a sudden, abrupt yearning for. It oozes from every pore in her skin. It’s so ingrained in every single movement, it’s impossible to describe it. She’s right, you know. She’s not one of you, not someone you ought to look out for because she clearly doesn’t need it. But just because you understand the urge as selfish now, does not make the urge go away. You are at ease with yourself, in a way that should have made you kindred to her, but you can tell there’s a fundamental difference between you. You are at ease because you fought for it; you lost and gained and conquered who you are. The way she moves and speaks and looks at you tells you she’s never known hardship the way you did. She’s at ease with herself because that’s just how it’s always been, and that makes her something far greater than you’ll ever be.

“Well no, not really.” You grin, eager and terrified. “But it hurt like a bitch on fucking _fire_.”

She doesn’t laugh, but she smiles at you. You can tell the precise moment the curve of her lips sinks like a hook into your soul. You belong to her, in a way that you’ve never belonged to anyone before. It has nothing to do with quadrants or caste or anything that you’ve ever known. You belong to her, and you find the simplicity of the realization doesn’t bother you at all.

** ℵ **

The rest of the Council questions her extensively, after you two return the next night. You get a kick out of how irritated the Dreamer is about the whole thing, but the Scholar soon has you all focused on what matters. They’ve all changed, you think, in the sweeps you roamed the world and the sweeps it took to build the city; some just more than others. 

There was a time the Blacksmith would have just sat back and glared at you all like you were personally responsible for everything that went wrong with the world. Now she’s on top of things, delighting you all with that charming rustblood lack of filters that you can’t but adore. She says what she thinks, exactly and without censorship of any kind. You’re pretty sure she knows she’s upsetting at times, but you’re also pretty sure she relishes in that, too. And then when that happens, the Scholar chides her quietly, with paleness so subtle you think no one but you has noticed it. The Scholar is a pacifying troll, in general, but she always seems to pay special attention to anything the Blacksmith does and says, and you wonder if they would be brave enough quadrant each other against taboo. Maybe if given enough time. There was also a time the Nurturer never spoke unless directly spoken to, and even then there was a good chance he’d just ignore everything and keep to his quiet mutters. Now he even ventures two or three solid questions at your guest, though predictably, they were all about “the quiet ones” that live under the sea. To her credit, she answers him with the same levity and nonchalance as she answers everyone else. 

But of course, it’s mostly the Architect, the Dreamer and the Conqueror who lead the questioning, seemingly insatiable in their curiosity. They are the ones who’ve changed the less, you think, too crazy, too focused or too desperate to have much room for it. Then there’s the others. Like The Reckless, who nearly falls asleep halfway through, and the Conductor, who insists on acting like he couldn’t have cared less, and the Orator, who keeps getting interrupted, for fear she would talk you all into a stupor. They are who they are because they can’t be anything else. And then there’s you, sitting in silence in the grand hall, studying the ceiling and the table and the decorations that have slowly piled on as time went on.

You study the blank spaces in the patterns all around you and think of the blanks left everywhere in the city. They used your signs for decoration and as a symbol of deep respect: on the fortified walls surrounding the perimeter and the mosaics on some plazas and the decorative socles of most buildings. The same sequence, everywhere. This is your city, those patterns are meant to say, this is your city and no one else’s: The Blacksmith, The Nurturer, The Architect, The Dreamer, The Conductor, The Orator, The Conqueror, The Scholar, The Reckless and yourself. And always, always, two blanks: one between the Conductor and the Orator, one after your own sign. You think you know whose sign will now occupy the space after yours, encrusted between you and the Blacksmith in the great wheel designs all over the city.

“I don’t have a title,” your mysterious troll says, sitting at your left and looking regal in her indifference.

“Everyone has a title,” the Orator insists, leaning on the table with a frown. “How else would you expect to address outsiders?”

“There are no outsiders where I come from,” the fuchsiablood replies, shrugging elegantly. “There is no kin where I come from. Only me, and my Mother. And whatever lurks in the depths.”

“What does your mother call you?” The Dreamer asks, frowning.

You hate the way he frowns, like he’s trying to understand the whole of the universe and he somehow manages to feel offended there’s something he _doesn’t_ understand.

“Not even I can pronounce it,” she replies in that same unruffled tone of hers. “You may call me anything you wish.”

There’s a long silence in reply to that, as they all look to each other and try to engage you in the game. You keep your eyes on the ceiling and say nothing. There’s nothing that needs to be said, yet.

“A troll needs a name and a title,” the Conductor speaks finally, voice a quiet monotone as his green eyes survey the table. “It is the way things should be.”

“Thanks for the fucking insight,” the Reckless snaps, shifting in his seat and rolling his eyes so hard it can almost be heard. “We kinda already figured _that_ one out, shithead.”

“Sooooo,” the Architect interrupts, not letting the squabble even begin, “why don’t we just, you know, _give_ her one?”

There’s another precious moment of spluttering and you can’t but crack up at the look on their faces. The troll at your left blinks and gives you a questioning look while the table settles down their ruffled feathers.

“You can’t just _do_ that!” The Conqueror squeaks after a moment, choking on his own tongue. “I don’t know how you goldbloods do shit, but titles are important!”

“How do you do it then?” The fuchsia blood asks before anyone else can get another word of protest in. You relish in the way she effortlessly commands attention in the room, and know for sure it’s not just the novelty of her presence. You try to keep the grin off your face, but you’re not entirely successful. “How do you choose a title?”

“You don’t _choose_ your own title!” The Scholar mutters, a tad horrified at the idea. Then she blinks and looks around the room. After a moment of suspense, she dares to voice the question. “Do you?”

“It depends on the caste, really.” The Dreamer is using his most soothing tone, pulling attention in the room to himself and away from the volatile topic you’re discussing. He addresses your fellow seadweller directly. “Each caste has its own rites for it, when children officially become adults.” He pauses a moment, then sits back. You’re pretty sure you’re the only one who notice the way his breathing deepens before he delivers the next blow. “Limebloods are granted their titles when they master their powers and display them for the elders to judge. Age doesn’t matter, really, only skill.”

There’s a long, long shocked silence after that. You would make an undue quip about you lot speaking through awkward silence more often than not, but you’re still trying to swallow down the meaning of that admission. You don’t just... share the secrets of your castes that way. Just because there haven’t been any wigglers to teach doesn’t mean any of you wants to get rid of those secrets and what they represent. But the Dreamer’s entire existence seems to be guided by shattering tradition and breaking natural law, first forcing you to coexist in some semblance of peace and now... 

You can feel the tension in the room shifting. You make up your mind as you meet the Dreamer’s eyes across the table and let your lip curl up slightly in assent. Fuck, you hate him so much sometimes it takes your breath away.

“Violetbloods get theirs on their twelfth wriggling day,” you speak in an even, almost disinterested voice. Like you’re talking about the weather and not breaking one of those unspoken laws you’ve always lived by. You ignore the way they look at you, and instead focus your attention on the newest member of your ranks. “The highest authority of the settlement and your parents discuss it in secret before announcing it in public. It’s kind of a big deal, there’s a celebration and everything, since most broodmates are titled together.”

You wait. You know you’re all waiting.

“Parents name their children,” the Architect says after a moment, not a second too late. You smile at her, just for the hell of it. But it’s not your grin she’s basking on, offering a weak one of her own to the Reckless. “But the Administrators title trolls. There is... or well, there _was_ a whole library of them, based on skills and positions that need to be filled in the army. You don’t _fit_ your title, you’re supposed to grow into it.”

“When a kid turns fifteen,” the Reckless rumbles, grinning with all his teeth, barely a second after she’s done, “they make a show for the rest of their clan. Anything. They’re supposed to show what they think it’s their best quality or skill or whatever. And then their entire clan will argue a few days about it before settling on a title for the poor motherfucker who’s left hoping he won’t be saddled with something like the Inept or the Carcass.”

His grin turns into a challenging, feral smirk that dares you all to wonder what the fuck he did to earn a title like his. And then he gives the Architect a disgustingly pale, preening look and the effect is broken entirely.

“Rustbloods inherit titles from their masters,” the Blacksmith says after a moment, voice low and still somewhat disapproving of the turn this conversation has taken. “So we sort of choose it, in a sense.” She gives the Scholar an arched eyebrow that only makes the indigoblood scoff. “In theory anyway. Your master trains you in their skill and fucking grinds you into the ground until you’re competent enough. And then choose their successor from a bunch of apprentices and fight them to the death for the title in question. Some rustbloods never earn titles at all, but the fuckers usually die before it becomes a real embarrassment.”

“For indigobloods titles are tied to bloodlines and signs,” the Scholar says after giving the Blacksmith another chiding look, shaking her head. “There’s a limited number of titles assigned to the index of signs, and when a troll joins their assigned place in society, their parents choose for them.” She shrugs slowly, ignoring the various looks thrown her way. “Parents and children tend to have the same title, generation after generation.”

“Bluebloods get the title of the Ancestor who died the closest to the night they hatched,” the Conqueror mutters with a frown, almost rushing the words out as if afraid he’ll lose his nerve. “You’re supposed to keep on their legacy and continue where they left off. So you technically know your title since you’re just a kid. That way you can train and prepare for when you’re titled publicly once you turn nine.”

The room lapses into silence, once the more proactive of you are done talking. You wonder if the rest will dare to speak up. Those fuchsia eyes are roaming the length of the room, silently needling the others to come forth with their own secrets. Her eyes fall on the tealblood and you hold your breath almost without noticing.

“Tealbloods earn their titles when they master their weapon of choice,” the Orator says loftily, casually fanning herself with said weapon of choice. You’ve seen her do amazingly violent things with the seemingly useless fans. You know she’s not exaggerating when she says she’s a master of her weapon. “They must put up a display for the head of the family, and he or she will judge them and eventually title them.”

There’s something in the way she pauses, the way she sweeps her eyes around the room, that makes you feel like she’s not saying everything she could. You don’t say anything though. For all everyone always gives you shit for your comments, you know damn well when to keep your mouth shut. It’s just that, like with everything else about you, they never appreciate it. But you make note of it, and you wonder.

“Greenbloods earn the right for a title after surviving their first sweep in combat,” the Conductor spits out shortly, giving you all looks of disdain and disapproval. “Then your broodmates title you.”

That’s considerably more detail than you ever expected to get out of the prissy bastard. That many words at the same time are some kind of record, you’re sure. You’re not the only one who stares at him until he bares his fangs in warning, eyes narrowed. One by one, all of you turn to the brownblood casually draped on his seat, placidly. As usual, he doesn’t seem to be even aware of the conversation going on around you. But the fuchsiablood will have none of it. Having listened in silence to everything the rest of you said, she turns to the Nurturer and clears her throat.

“And how are brownbloods titled?” She asks, blunt and shameless, and you can’t help but snicker as someone - the Conductor - fumes in silent outrage.

The Nurturer looks up at her from his seat, blinking slowly before offering a dreamy smile.

“You’ve got to kill another troll, first,” he says, and the rest of the room falls silent as you stare at him. “Preferably not another brownblood, of course, but sometimes it happens. Sometimes that kind of thing just happens and you can’t help it. So you kill another troll and you take their head with you, it’s very important that you don’t forget the head, because if not you can’t do the next part. You need to find a _wedel_ and ask him to crack the skull open and read whatever’s inside the dead troll’s pan. Because when you kill a troll, your title and your fortune gets written somewhere in their pan, but only a _wedel_ would know how to read it. You’re supposed to do it with the first troll you ever kill, because inside their skull there’ll be a very important prediction about what you ought to do next, but it’s okay if you miss it. Sometimes you can’t save the skull and then you just have to find another one to kill. And then the _wedel_ will make soup and you will eat and drink and go home and tell everyone what your new title is. The soup is very important, you know.”

You are not the only one staring at him like he’s lost his fucking mind. You know, because in all the sweeps you’ve known him, he’s never raised a hand to fight, much less kill a troll. You don’t even think he’s ever carried a weapon with him. He’s always in his own little world, playing with his pouch of seeds and talking about “the quiet ones”. He taught most of the trolls in the city how to grow edible plants and he’s the only troll the brownbloods listen to without question, but that’s the extent of his interaction with the world at large. You can’t really see a troll like him actually murdering someone, no matter how hard you try.

“If all of you were titled by another,” the fuchsiablood says after a long pause, snapping you all from the awkward silence. “How is it wrong for you to title me? I don’t have kin to do it for me, and you admit you are bothered by my lack of one. I can think of a name of my own, I suppose. Would that satisfy you?”

You see the looks exchanged around the room, several of them aimed at you. You shrug and turn to study the way she seems completely unaware of what exactly she’s asking of you. The Dreamer gives you a flat, accusing look, as if you were responsible for her words. You grin back at him, and wonder how long it’ll take your prophet to figure out exactly how ludicrous that notion is.

** ℵ **

“Do you know what she did?”

You look up from your book to find the Dreamer at your door, clutching the knob with white knuckles. You blink at him as he snarls and then steps in, slamming the door behind him just for effect. You shift until you’re sitting at the edge of your rest slab, and place the book aside. This is going to take a while, you think.

“No, I don’t,” you say, then flash him the exact kind of grin that makes his snarl darken into something feral. “Me not being there and all, but you’re dying to tell me, so _spit_ it out, Harlow.”

The terrible pun, the exact intonation and the precise use of his name are all timed perfectly to cause a very specific reaction. You laugh as he splutters, blotches of bright lime green blooming on his face. You laugh harder when he throws himself at you, digging his claws into your shoulders and glowering down at you. You know he wants to grab your neck and squeeze, but the one time he did that your gills started bleeding and you spent a perigee kind of, sort of dying because of it. You let him have his petty victory, flashing teeth at him. It’s always like this, when you two are alone. Always skirting the edge of black flirting, in ways that make your usual heavy-handed snarking seem quite tame. But neither of you will take it further than that, because that’s just not how it works. You’re best friends because if you were kismesis the entire city would revolt. He’s sweet-talked trolls into plenty of things they always thought impossible, but this is the one thing he’s yet to manage. It’s okay, you suppose. It could be worse. Or serendipity could stand to be less fucking unfair, too. That’d be pretty nice.

“One of these days,” he hisses at you, digging his claws into your shoulders almost until they bleed. “One of these fucking days, I’m going to bite your fucking fin off, so your fucking ugly mug will at least be symmetrical.”

“Promises, promises,” you slur back, eyes mockingly half-lidded and every single needle-like teeth bared. “Stop playing with my hatred and tell me what our Lady Nameless did this time.”

He groans good and loud and then lets himself fall onto the cushioned slab, right next to you. You don’t really think of him by name, or at least you try not to. You’re the one who keeps making light of your fucked up mess and cracking jokes about it, but if you don’t keep some kind of distance, the bitterness of the situation might actually catch up with you. So he’s the Dreamer to you, same as he is to the rest, because he’s not your kismesis, just your best friend. You soften your blows and try to mask them with pity you don’t really feel. It’s just the way it goes. You shift until he’s not half-lying on you, since his warmer blood feels suffocating after a very short while, and then settle down to enjoy your favorite pastime: listen to him bitch.

“She cut off her hair,” he says, grinding his teeth in irritation.

You blink.

“That’s it?” You nudge him when he grunts. “For fuck’s sake, I know her hair’s pretty but that’s hardly a reason to throw a hissy fit.”

“She cut off her fucking hair. With a _sword_. In the middle of the fucking _street_.”

“Oh,” you say, somewhat overwhelmed by that deadpan, “ _awkward_.”

You have not yet titled the fuchsiablood. She seems somewhat amused at the idea of thinking up a name for herself, one that she’s also not allowed to share with anyone else because only close kin and quadrants are allowed to use a troll’s real name. Her not having a proper title makes everything more complicated than it has any business being, really. But it’s something none of you really know how to handle. The Dreamer proposed letting her spend some time in the city, keeping a low profile and allowing you to get to know her better before you reach a decision. This, you think, is an excuse for the Dreamer to gather up his wits around her, because she has the most delightful habit of breaking his empty thinkpan in the most amusing of ways. So far, opinions seem to generally fluctuate between utterly fucking baffled to amused to awed. But nothing solid enough to even begin thinking of a title. Personally, you prefer to observe from the sidelines and entertain yourself watching the way she leaves everyone around her reeling as if it were a fucking sport. The fact that she doesn’t even seem aware of what she’s doing only makes it funnier.

“The Blacksmith, the Conqueror and the Scholar were with us,” the Dreamer goes on, steadily grinding his teeth as he speaks. “Just a little tour of the market, you know. Nothing out of the fucking ordinary. And then all of a fucking sudden, she’s grabbing this goddamn sword nearly as long as she’s fucking tall and swinging it about. Scared the fucking shit out of everyone present.” He shoves you when you start laughing. “It’s not fucking funny, Spit.”

“I think it’s hilarious,” you confess, snickering and squirming away from the claws trying to pinch your skin. “Did she say why she suddenly decided her hair was offensive?”

He gives you the tortured, long-suffering look that you hate best.

“Because it was making her sweat.” You crack up again. He punches the gills on your sides, making you choke on a breath, and then goes on, grousing like a child. “One minute the Scholar’s explaining how the market works and where all the produce comes from, and the next she’s cutting off that fucking mane of hair like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And of course the fucking Conqueror starts laughing the moment she goes ‘ what?’, like _we_ ’re the ones being weird as fucking hell.”

You can’t say you’re entirely surprised, all things considered. You don’t know why they are. She’s admitted, time and time again, that she really doesn’t know much of anything about trollkind, your customs and traditions. She says she grew up alone with only her mother for company and the implication - though she has not corroborated it as fact - is that her mother is not exactly a troll herself. You’re secretly proud of the fact she often asks you for clarification about things, not the others. You’ve done your best to answer her questions, but you don’t expect her to really understand something she never grew up with. She makes you realize just how much of your life revolves around things you were taught, how much you are the product of the society that raised you. You would think the Dreamer would try to take advantage of that, to try and drive home the fact that a troll can function without tradition smothering them. But he’s too busy spluttering and trying to understand.

“She’s going to be the death of me, Spit,” he mutters quietly, whine almost imperceptible in the back of his tone. “I swear to fucking god.”

You go ominously still.

“Is she?” You look down at him, eyes narrowed and jaw set. “Really?”

Prophets always predict their own death. You’ve talked about this before, plenty of times. Part of the reason he’s always been so frantic about his mission and his dreams is because he hasn’t yet seen his own death. That means he’s not yet predestined to success, that the cycle of prophecy could be broken. It terrifies him like nothing else, the idea of dying before completing his work. 

“No,” he quietly reassures you, suddenly tired and worn out. “Not like that. That was poor word choice on my part.”

You want to punch him. You hate him and fret about him all the time, so much it genuinely hurts sometimes. You exist solely to needle him into doing his best, sometimes, enraging and taunting and pressing all his buttons all at once. You hate him, all the more because he hates you back, fretting and needling just as hard. It’s a piss poor game you’ve been playing for nearly fifty sweeps, and when you’re forced to be honest with yourself, you don’t know how long you’ll be able to hold onto the pretense.

“You’re the master of fucking poor choices,” you snap at him, a shade too bitter for him to ignore.

You should throw him out, but you won’t. You should push away, but you won’t. Because you always want what you can’t have, and then make yourself endure out of sheer spite. It’s just who you are, bad decisions and worse luck.

“I know.”

You spend the rest of the night lying on the rest slab, listening to each other breathe.

** ℵ **

“You’ve been quiet as of late, Spiteful.”

In the center of the plaza, the Reckless, the Architect and the fuchsiablood are having a friendly spar. On their own, the goldblood and the purpleblood are fearsome enemies to fight, but together they are nigh unstoppable. There’s just some unspoken affinity between them that leaves them moving in devastating synchronization. Even their favored weapon is oddly similar, though their fighting styles are not. You’ve never met two trolls who meld so well in so many aspects of their lives. And you can’t help but feel a little bitter about it, because their quadrant has some solid precedent and even if it’d make everyone stare, no one would actually revolt about it. You need to stop thinking about that before you get violent. Instead, you watch as she keeps up with them with relative ease. You can tell she’s still not used to the way her weight and her center of gravity changes on dry land, because the instinctual shifts in her posture give it away. But her form is aggressive, and she handles that culling fork with practiced ease.

You turn to look at the Orator, casually fanning herself as she gives you a thin smile.

“Have I?” You taunt back, almost without thought.

You don’t like her. You don’t like her for a very petty, very stupid reason, and not any particular character flaw of hers: people _listen_ to her. It’s not her fault no one listens to you, but still, you don’t like her. You don’t _have_ to like her. You just have to make sure you don’t kill her. It’s odd, you think, how you’ve all changed through the sweeps. You don’t all get along, on your own. Left to your own devices, the bickering and snarking quickly escalates. But as soon as there’s something that needs to be considered or decisions to be made, you all become focused on it to the exclusion of everything else. You blame the Dreamer for having trained you all so well, more so without most of them realizing it. You only notice because there’s little he does that you don’t. You side-eye the Orator as she takes a sit next to you, posture flawless as always.

“You have,” she goes on, the movement of her hand pure reflex as she gives you that razor smile of hers. “One wonders if our nameless darling will gift us with something else beside her blood.”

“Is that so?” You bare your teeth at her, but you know the gesture will not upset her.

She’s very hard to upset, when one gets down to it. You’ve always thought she’s too jaded to serve the purpose the Dreamer predicted she would, but you suppose she’s good enough if she hasn’t given up thus far. You know she’s not that young, but she still has a tendency to act as if she’s the oldest, most experienced among you. Not that anyone but the Dreamer, the Blacksmith and the Conductor have even a vague idea of just how old you really are. Before the meteors rained death on everyone, a troll was lucky to live a hundred sweeps. Most of the trolls in your little group are fast approaching that landmark, while the rest of the city’s population shifts about nervously at the thought of any of you dropping dead any day. The Orator carries herself in a way that gives her a dignified air of wisdom. You don’t care if she acts like she’s older and thus more worthy of respect than you. You’ve spent most of your life trying to make sure people don’t remember or ask how old you are, after all. But what drives you up a wall is the fact people listen to her, when there’s something so very obviously wrong about her. The Dreamer will not tell you, which means you’ll have to figure it out on your own.

“Would that be so bad, giving everyone a measure of respite?” The way she tilts her head, the delicate gold chains linking her horns jiggle softly. Crazy bitch had them _pierced_ at some point before joining the Dreamer’s troupe. If the rings on your fin hurt like hell, you don’t want to imagine what it took to drill holes in her fucking horns. “Surely even you must grow tired at some point.”

“Not really,” you shrug at her, watching your fellow seadweller go toe to toe with the Reckless as the gargantuan troll tries to smash her and finds she withstands the blows rather easily. You think you know why, but you see no reason why to spoil her game. “But it’s no fun to kick you when you’re down.” 

There’s more than just being able to breath underwater, to her claim of living in the depths. The depths mean water cold enough to freeze the blood in your veins. The depths mean pressure strong enough to dent metal. If she really comes from the abyss, and you genuinely believe she does, you’re pretty sure that means her lithe, little body is made to endure things that would instantly kill most trolls. That’s why she can go hand to hand with the physically strongest of you, without visible strain. That’s why she keeps avoiding to touch things and the few times she does, something ends up broken or bent. You wonder if anyone else has bothered to notice it, but you sincerely doubt it.

“What is that supposed to mean?” The Orator demands, eyes narrowed over the rim of her fan.

In the plaza, the fuchsiablood gets her first hand of the Architect’s talent, and her surprise at the multiplying goldblood buys the Reckless enough time to disarm and pin her down. She blinks rapidly, staring up at the hulking troll bearing down at her, and the smug goldblood sitting on his shoulders. And then she laughs. It’s not a mocking sound, by any means. There is genuine delight in her laughter, both at the novelty of defeat and just the unexpectedness of it. You can tell the precise moment when the Reckless falls to her service, as he laughs back and lets her go without actually bothering to announce his win. You don’t think the Architect gets it yet, but it will only be a matter of time, before she falls for it too. You would be a lot more concerned, with the way she so effortlessly earns alliance, but you’re already hers.

“It means I hate my punchlines being fucking understatements,” you say, arching an eyebrow at the tealblood and baring all your teeth at her in a mockery of a grin. “Repeating the obvious like it’s some kind of wisdom is best reserved for wigglers, don’t you think?”

She’s a wordsmith by her own right, her title is not misleading. She cares for nuances and implications, both in what she says and what is said to her. You love to see the way her eyes darken as she dissects your meaning in her mind. And yet, for all the subtle hints of anger, her voice remains almost congenial as she turns to look at the three trolls slowly making their way to where you are sitting.

“But of course, one simply mustn’t dwell in childish things.”

You don’t laugh, merely grin. You’ll get your laugh, too, when you see the prickly bitch be caught in the same web you are. It’ll be something you won’t stop laughing at for a very long time.

** ℵ **

Food fascinates your fellow seadweller. How it’s prepared and where it comes from and how it tastes and what can be done to change that taste. You suppose that if you’d spend your entire life eating miscellaneous abomination from the depths, _raw_ , you would be too. But still, it’s entertaining, watching her taste new things. There’s such... intensity in the way she does. And then she learned a few tricks from the indigobloods. You’re not even sure how, but your suspicions point to the Scholar giving into that strange charismatic magnetism of hers. You sit on the counter of the food preparation block, her, the Dreamer and you, all three staring at the coal oven like you’re contemplating life’s deepest mysteries.

“Maybe we should call you the Baker, darling,” you venture out after a moment, offering her a sidelong grin.

“Spit,” the Dreamer chides you, sitting at her right.

You’ve been spending a good deal of time together, entertaining her while the rest of the Council works to prepare the city for the season change and the inevitable wave of scavengers. Without needing to be told why - and probably without really understanding why - she’s found herself standing between you two, more often than not. It reeks of ashen and you’re not sure what to do about it, except crack more jokes and taunt the Dreamer into spluttering, until she looks at you both with a dry, unamused look and delivers some unintentionally hilarious deadpan in the most solemn of voices.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” she says, not taking her eyes off the hourglass resting in front of her, fuchsia eyes following the steady fall of sand.

“I _know_ you wouldn’t mind,” the Dreamer goes on, pausing in his glaring at you to give her that long-suffering look that you find utterly despicable. “That’s the problem.”

“I don’t see why it’s a problem at all,” she shoots back, tapping the edge of the hourglass with a sharp, pointy claw. Work of the Conqueror, you’re sure. When she first arrived, her claws here a nightmare of dull, cracked, uneven edges. “If I don’t mind it at all.”

“Maybe _I_ mind,” the Dreamer snaps, glowering a little.

“Well, don’t let anyone change your title then.”

“Well, don’t let anyone change your title then.”

She looks up from her hour glass to blink somewhat owlishly at you. You blink back. You can’t tell if it’s that you’ve gotten real good at predicting the twists in her humor, or she’s been spending far too much time with you. The Dreamer makes a face.

“If you’re going to share a thinkpan with someone, may I suggest you pick someone with an actual functional one in the first place?”

She gives him that smile of hers, with just enough hint of teeth to be dangerous and all the laughter in the world implied at the corner of her lips. The Dreamer grins back, hopelessly amused. Eventually the sand runs out, and she moves to retrieve her latest creation from the fire. There’s something methodical and calm in her movements, something soothing. It took her awhile to try, you know, getting used to the way her body moved on land and the changes in strength and precision moves. One of her spoons is dented in the pattern of her fingers, but everyone is gracious enough to not mention it.

“And how did you come up with this one?” You ask lazily, watching her place the still hot platter on the counter.

Bread is a novelty that came from the Nurturer teaching trolls how to grow grain and how to use it, combined with old indigoblood techniques here and there. She makes things that aren’t exactly bread, though. Sweeter, for one, because she seems to be fascinated by anything sweet. For another, the textures change from one try to the next. She’s taken a real creative shine to this little endeavor of hers, so much so that if there’s no one to demand her attention, she’ll spend entire nights here, mixing ingredients and baking enough food to feed the entire staff of the house. The entire staff of the house, coincidentally, is rather exceptionally fond of her.

“I was bored,” she says, blowing softly on the top of the still steaming crust. “And Nurturer brought me nuts.”

The Nurturer is another who has fallen into her hands. His is a lot more subtle than most, though, by virtue of him being batshit fucking crazy. You wonder how long it’ll be, before she manages to lure the rest of you into her orbit. You wonder what will happen when she realizes that’s what she’s doing.

In the end, the only conclusion you can draw is that nuts taste amazing when baked... and that’s not just because of the Dreamer’s hitherto undiscovered nut allergy.

** ℵ **

When the scavengers come, you’re prepared. This happens every change of season, when hunting prey becomes scarc _er_ and the city becomes a temptation for those who refuse to bend to your laws and join you. This has been the way of things ever since you put the first stone in place. The trolls of the city are ready for the waves of attackers. Your still untitled fuchsiablood seems rather enthused by the prospect of battle, treating it with the same curiosity that she did her baking. You’ve tried to explain that there won’t really be much of a battle, really, considering the attackers are usually half-starved, insane trolls who wail at your walls and are made short work off by the trolls stationed outside. Most of the Council doesn’t even engage in direct combat; only the Reckless, the Architect and the Conqueror do, one because he’s a maniac who delights in the thrill of bloodshed, one because she’s got some new crazed technique or invention to test, and one because he’s desperately trying to prove he’s worthy of his title. The rest of you tend to the needs of the city, keeping order until the fight ends.

You’re walking with her the fortified wall that surrounds the entirety of the city, when things stop going according to plan. Mostly because the wall beneath your feet explodes in a rain of rock. You suspend yourself on reflex, eyes glowing as you snarl. And then you remember the seadweller at your side, swearing up a storm. You descend to the cloud of dust and find her half sprawled on the remains of the wall. Before you can start panicking properly, she slowly sits up, staring straight ahead with a blank look on her face. Trolls scream all around you, as the scavengers howl warcries and throw themselves toward the hole they managed to tear on the wall. And she keeps staring. You can hear captains and commanders barking orders to close the lines, as well as the Reckless howling a bloodcurdling note.

But you don’t look away, as her expression slowly melts into something dark and feral and _enraged_.

There’s something terrifying in the way she pushes herself back to her feet, jaw set and eyes narrowed to near slits. Her fists clench and unclench several times, before she looks up at you. The way she cut her hair to the nape of her neck makes her horns look even larger than they already are. If you weren’t still floating mid-air, you would give a step back.

“You need to---”

“That hurt,” she says slowly, tone overflowing disbelief as she stares at the rivulets of fuchsia blooming on her thighs and her ankles. “They _hurt_ me.”

She leaps off the remnants of the wall with feral elegance, uncoiling her body with the strength she earned in the depths. She lands far down below, near the frontlines. You stare as she screeches, fury overcoming her as she leads the charge against the approaching trolls. They have more of their bombs, but it’s easy enough for you to catch them midair and send them hurling back. You don’t think anyone really notices, though, because the true brunt of slaughter is being carried out by the fuchsiablood. She went unarmed, but that didn’t seem to stop her. The mass of trolls - and the attacking army is far larger than you originally expected - circles around her, trying to drown her in bodies and guts and death. The Blacksmith is merciless. The Nurturer is a mystery. The Architect is unrelenting. The Dreamer is unforgiving. The Conductor is ruthless. The Orator is deadly. The Conqueror is unpredictable. The Scholar is feral. The Reckless is brutal. And you personally like to class yourself somewhere up there with force of fucking nature, when it comes to fighting.

But she... oh, she is Death wearing a troll’s skin.

She tears them apart, limb by limb, but there’s no crazed laugh to it, no unhinged hysteria to it. That’s what makes it so fucking terrifying, you think, the way it’s so _purposeful_. Methodical. She’s stronger than them. Far more durable than them. She bathes in their blood and there’s no glee in it, no insane rejoicing in it. Just the grim satisfaction of an offense repaid. As natural as cause and consequence, as inevitable. The battle reaches its turning point when the invaders run out of bombs for you to throw back at them. The forces on the battlefield chase after the survivors when they start running away, but they don’t chase them far. They are all far more concerned with the lone seadweller standing amidst a pool of blood, most certainly not her own. After a display like that, they expect her to turn on them. They form a wide wall, between her and the city. With her source of anger gone, however, she looks back to her calmer self, staring at the nervous trolls twitching and shifting around in place. So much for a low profile, you think, catching the Dreamer’s eye in the crowd gathering by the wall. You raise him and the other members of the Council with a careless twitch of your mind, floating you all to stand between her and the crowd slowly working itself up to attack her. The sight of you seems to calm them down, somewhat, but you can tell, the way they are looking at you now, judging. Waiting.

Such fickle things, trolls, giving to fear with such ease.

“Did I not tell you,” the Dreamer says, raising his voice over the murmurs, waiting until the entire army has stopped to listen, “that we would meet her here, our savior from the depths?”

Your savior from the depths seems to have forgotten her anger in the face of the new situation, staring around curiously. But she keeps quiet. Blessed her goddamn fins and her habit to listen and observe, rather than speak, because at least now you can pretend this whole thing was planned. Trolls like spectacle, after all. You’re struck by the irony of such a thought, when you remember your own words upon meeting her. You don’t let it show on your face though. This is not how you wanted this to go, but things rarely go the way you want them to. The Dreamer makes a sweeping gesture to her, playing off the faces in the crowd to his advantage. He’s always been good at that.

“May I present to you, the Undying of the fuchsiabloods.”

She smiles her hook of a smile, fins flaring at each side of her face, and you’re sure no troll will ever forget it, for as long as they live. You certainly won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's like the entire world conspired to not let me write, dear god. But it's done. Dedicated to my friend Plus, who distracted me for nearly four hours straight with plurk shenanigans.
> 
> If it's not blatantly obvious by now, I really do enjoy writing worldbuilding and the like. The next chapter is probably one of my favorite, if only because it's told from the Architect's POV.


	6. Gold ‡ Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Search for the Twelfth.

**Gold ‡ Maker**

“Eh?! You want us to leave?!” 

It’s been a long time, since the Dreamer has said something that threw the entire Council upside down. The meeting hall is silent enough that the Conqueror’s disbelieving words echo for a moment. It’s no small thing to announce, after all, when you’ve been in a single place for so long. 

You sweep your gaze around the circular table, before naturally finding Spyros’ eyes at your right. He answers your unasked question with a subtle shrug of his shoulders, so you nod back in assent. Your... moirail, you suppose is the closest word to describe what you are, doesn’t generally make a fuss out of things, honoring his title with every breath he takes. For him, this will just be another adventure, something new and interesting to take the edge of boredom off his mind. You suppose you wouldn’t mind much, either, even though it’ll throw a monumental wrench into your plans to bring the city’s technology up to goldblood standards. It’s just so fucking sad, in many ways, how stuck in the stone age some things are, around here. It fucking sucks that you’re of the few that really cares about it, too. The rest of the goldbloods are pretty divided on the issue, and not in a good way. The Designers care about technology and having their toys back, but they balk at the idea of sharing with the city at large. While the Contractors, who are in fact the vast majority of the goldbloods in the city, are all up for sharing technology with other castes, but being frontline soldiers, their only experience is _using_ technology, not actually making it. 

You’ve always known you’re kind of a loose cannon, according to goldblood standards. You come from a long line of Contractors, but your talents are unmistakably those of a Designer. When you were titled and enlisted to begin your training, it never really _stuck_ to you, the way they wanted you to think and act and _live_. You’re a Designer with the soul of a Contractor; and though it always got you in trouble - and there was no shortage of trolls to give you shit about it, either - it was never that big of a deal. You’re brilliant and a specialist in thinking outside the box, that alone saved your neck when you skipped around protocols and social norms associated to your class. But once you were taken out from that environment, given authority and a voice, without need to shout to be heard, you became fascinated with the inner workings of your caste’s social system. You still are. The more time you spend with the Council, the more stark the differences become. You are disturbed to realize that for all goldbloods have always been proud of their intellectual achievements, goldbloods are trained specifically _not_ to think about the particularly big things that _need_ to be thought about. 

By contrast things in the city are... weird. Different. The main priority is survival, sure, but since there’s no unified caste in power and everything needs to be bargained for to suit everyone, there’s so much less control about things. It’s weird as fuck, to be honest, but you kind of like it. Strange, often awesome things happen when trolls of various castes are put together to solve the same problem. It’s one of your favorite parts of living here and you’ll definitely miss if it you leave. There’s fun to be had, in the outside world, though. And you suppose that just because it’d be more difficult, that you can’t actually make it work. Leaving is a big deal, yes, but you think you’ll be okay. 

You always are, anyway. 

“You make us build an entire fucking city and now we need to leave it behind?” The Blacksmith snaps, shifting in her seat as if considering storming off. “Did you knock all your good sense off your fucking thinkpan or did you just woke up and decided to be fucking idiotic today?” 

You grin at her, even though she’s not looking at you. You like the Blacksmith. Always have. She’s powerful by her own right, without being actually arrogant about it. Always fiercely honest, and fuck whoever doesn’t like the truth. And now that she’s learned to loosen up a bit, she’s also bitingly snide in a very hilarious and creative way. Calls it as it is, she likes to say. The Dreamer doesn’t seem in the least perturbed by her outburst, though, shrugging at her. You like the Dreamer too. You admire his bravery and commitment to his cause, and you kind of envy the way he’s so sure of himself, so calm and collected - so long as Spit ain’t around or keeps quiet, at least. 

“You misunderstand,” the Dreamer insists, offering a pacifying gesture with a shrug. “ _We_ need to leave, the city will endure just fine while we’re gone.” 

This time the silence is terrifying. 

It’s one thing, for all of you to leave together and take the road as a whole group, an entire army. But just you eleven? Just, go and leave your bloodmates behind? Even though you hold no particularly overwhelming love for the other goldbloods, they’re _goldbloods_. It feels wrong just to leave them behind like that. Another look around the room shows reactions much like yours. Spyros is no longer smirking, too, but rather frowning in a way you know means he’s deep in thought. He cares very much about his people, you know. He was once a great clan leader, owner of vast lands and lord of many trolls. His purplebloods follow his every word and trust his instincts because he’s never failed them. You don’t think he’s ever really been away from his own kind. Come to think about it, probably only the seadwellers know what that’s like: Spit because he doesn’t seem to give much of a fuck for his own people, and the Undying because, as she’s said plenty of times, she’s the only one of her kind in the whole world. 

“You want us to abandon our people?” The Orator enunciates very clearly, and her narrowed eyes wouldn’t be that much of a threat except she closes her fan a she speaks and that’s never a good sign. For anyone involved. 

“Did he say that?” Spit grumbles from his chair, rolling his eyes at you all. 

“I didn’t say that,” the Dreamer hurries along, shooting the seadweller a chiding look, and preventing anyone from snapping back at him. “We will come back, of course, but there are things we must take care of.” 

“Things you rarely care to share with the rest of us, I might add.” 

The Conductor’s words are callous, but not untrue. The Dreamer has the decency to look slightly abashed by the accusation, though it doesn’t last long. He doesn’t tell you much, your prophet. Frankly, given how much he never says, you wouldn’t believe him at all if he weren’t always right about the things he does tell you. From your limited understanding of prophecy, there are some things he simply cannot tell you, for the sake of letting things go the way he’s foretold. To be perfectly honest, prophecy and premonitions and that kind of temporal predestination makes your head hurt and the less you know about it, the best. 

“Perhaps, it would be best if you told us about those things,” the Undying says after a moment, looking at the Dreamer expectantly. 

You... are not sure you like the Undying. You don’t _dis_ like her, at least, but there’s something very odd and very peculiar about her that you can’t exactly name. A distance between you that you’ve never really known how to breach, and more importantly, whether you want to breach it or not. Nonetheless, though she rarely speaks up, when she does, things happen. You turn to look at the Dreamer, waiting for his reaction. You know you’re not the only one. 

“When I found you,” he begins, after a long moment of silence. “Each of you, I made you a promise, did I not?” 

“You said the meteors stole our children,” the Scholar says, quietly. “You said you knew of a way to undo what was done to us.” Her eyes narrow. “You’ve never said how, though.” 

“I haven’t,” the Dreamer agrees, nodding. “And instead made you follow me as I gathered everyone. And then we came here, to built a city and wait for our eleventh to arrive.” He motions to the Undying as he speaks, and she tilts her head in acknowledgement of his gesture. “I simply couldn’t tell you then.” 

“Why the fuck not?” Spyros growls at him, purple eyes narrowed considerably. 

“Because I had already dreamed this conversation,” the Dreamer answers with a little shrug that you think seems more than a little... resigned. “I couldn’t tell you until you asked me, because otherwise I would be defying prophecy and if I had...” He swallows hard, then shakes his head. “But you’ve asked me and I’ll tell you. I intend to summon the Guardian.” 

“The Guardian?” The Conqueror stares at him like he’s gone mad. You, yourself have no fucking clue why some of them are looking so troubled. “You mean, like the Guardian- _Guardian_? White guy living in the moon? _That_ Guardian?” 

“That’s just a fucking grubtale,” Spyros, to your infinite surprise, interjects with a snort. 

“What Guardian?” The Undying interrupts, leaning on the table curiously. 

“The Guardian of Alternia,” the Blacksmith says, frowning at the Dreamer. “There are stories about a... thing, not a troll. It supposedly lives on the Green Moon.” 

“Some stories refer to him as the First Guardian of Alternia, though of course that would imply there are more like him.” The Orator presses her lips into a thin, flat line. “Not all bloodcastes have stories pertaining him, however. And everyone universally agrees that he is but a myth.” 

“I assure you he is not,” the Dreamer insists, firm with that terrifying confidence of his. “And he alone possesses the power to give us back what the meteors stole from us.” 

“I sure as fuck hope you don’t expect us to take a hike into the fucking moon, Dreamer,” the Blacksmith snaps, eyes narrowed, but the limeblood only laughs. 

Oddly enough, his laughter seems to defuse some of the tension in the room. 

“No, we will not go to him. There are ways, however, to invite him in.” The Dreamer’s smile fades somewhat. “Twelve of us must stand, in name of our caste and blood, before we can summon him.” 

You snap your eyes to his left, between the Conductor and the Orator. There’s always been an empty space, there. You’ve never really questioned why, often much more pressed by other concerns than the Dreamer’s petty design tantrums. He’d left a space for the Undying, too, and bit by bit, her sign has been used to fill that. You take a moment to feel profoundly stupid, then the moment passes and you blink at him. 

“There _aren’t_ any other castes, though,” you say, ignoring the way the others are looking at you. “Okay, we thought there weren’t any other castes, and then the Undying came along, but she’s a special case. Are you going to pull another seadweller out of your ass for this?” 

“No, no more seadwellers,” the Dreamer says, though something in his tone makes Spit glare death at him and the Undying arch a single, challenging eyebrow. The Dreamer ignores them both. “But we do need our twelfth to close the circle. An outsider, like the Undying, to balance our scales.” 

The empty seat next to the Conductor? Exactly opposite from the Undying’s. It creeps you out, a little, to think about the world as seen from the prophet’s eyes. You wonder how many other things he’s done and said and implied, just for the sake of staying true to his prophecies. You’d reckon you’ll be better off not knowing. 

“There are also... artifacts we must retrieve,” the Dreamer goes on, “along the way to meet our last companion. Our journey will be a long, but productive one. The city will remain standing in our absence, perhaps made stronger because of it.” 

You squint at him a little. It sounds... it sounds almost like you all want to hear, you suppose, but then again, this _is_ the Dreamer. When has he been wrong? You feel Spyros’ eyes on you and you shrug at him, unsure of what to say. He shrugs back, but you can tell he’s still bothered by it. 

“And when are we leaving?” The Scholar asks, effectively bringing all of you back from your thoughts. 

The Dreamer sets his jaw. You’ve known him long enough to be wary of that look. 

“As soon as the outer wall repairs are done.” 

**‡**

You let yourself into Spyros’ room through the window, since his room is directly below yours. It amuses him when you do that, and you enjoy amusing him. You find him sitting on the floor, playing with one of his knives and a chunk of wood. You don’t think he’s very good at carving things, and you’ve told him so, but he needs something to do with his hands while he thinks about something. 

“Hey, Girlie,” he greets you, looking up from his work. 

“S’up, Big Brute,” you reply, tone lighthearted and almost soft, as you pad your way to his rest slab and take a sit on the edge of it. “Att for your thoughts?” 

“What, not even a kip?” Spyros looks up at you with both arched eyebrows. You mirror his expression until he cracks a laugh and shifts about, until his head is resting against your knees. “‘s nothing, really.” 

You fold your legs up into the rest slab and hum at him - a very unconvinced _uh huh_ \- before you begin undoing the braids. He lets out a rumbling sound as you dig your claws into his mane, parting it until the pads of your fingers reach his skull. You twist your mouth into a lopsided grin as he tilts his head into your touch. You begin working then, slowly untangling the stray knots and waiting for him to speak. 

“I don’t like this business with the Guardian,” he admits quietly, as you begin separating his hair and braiding it into ropes, the way he likes it. 

“Why?” You don’t like his tone, it seems almost hesitant, and hesitation does not belong anywhere near him. “Goldbloods don’t have stories about him, I don’t think.” 

“Because it sounds like he’s bad news, Girlie,” he frowns, and you can feel the way it tenses all the muscles in his head and his shoulders. “The stories make him sound like he’s a god of some sort. Which works pretty fuckin’ fine for a story, even if he’s the kind of god that just watches things and never does anything. But it’s a lot different when he’s actually _real_. Maybe he’s exactly like the stories say. Maybe he’s nothing like them. I’ve just... I’ve got this bad feeling about this, rubs me the wrong way.” 

“What kind of bad feeling?” You ask immediately, pausing a moment mid-braid. Spyros’ sixth sense has never been wrong, you know, his ability to predict danger is flawless. It’s also how a troll with a title like his could have survived this long. “Bad as in, oh shit, we’re all going to die, or oh shit, we’re gonna mess with the Powers-That-Be and if we screw up we’re gonna _wish_ we were dead?” 

“Neither,” he says, shrugging and upsetting the braid in your hands. You scoff a little as you undo it and begin again. “It’s just... this feeling, you know? About something... _bigger_ , I guess it’s the word. I just don’t like it.” 

“You should talk with the Dreamlord, he always listens to you.” You tie the end of the braid and before moving onto the next, take a moment to pat his shoulder with the appropriate level of paleness. That at least makes him laugh a little. “He probably already knows, but maybe you’re supposed to tell him. You know how he is.” 

Spyros snorts at that. 

“Maybe.” 

You lapse into silence then, as you finish your work on his hair and you lean on his head, arms folded as you settle between his horns. Your breathing falls into sync with his as you both stare at nothing in particular, just enjoying each other’s company. This is comfortable. Uncomplicated on the surface and deeply troubling underneath, but by mutual agreement and since neither of you wants to go insane, you focus only on that pleasant facade. You’re at ease in his presence in ways a moirail wouldn’t be, but you’ve long learned not to care. He gets you, it’s what matters. He gets you on a fundamental level that has nothing to do with class or blood or anything. You take solace in that, and strive to provide the same for him. 

Neither of you has much to do tonight, all things considered. The repairs on the wall will be done in a few weeks, but there’s not much left for you to do. The goldbloods have been briefed and took news of your departure fairly well. You don’t oversee them as closely as other members of the Council do their own castes. You’re not their leader, not the way Spyros lords over his purplebloods, for example. The goldbloods are your kin, but they’re not _your_ goldbloods. The only reason you’re in the Council is because you were the only one who had enough balls to leave first. Spyros’ people didn’t really take it all that well, but they’ve still got some time to get used to the idea. You know that’s weighing on him, too. An idea occurs to you, to get rid of some of the stress. 

“Hey,” you say, squirming more onto him and shifting until your face is upside-down and in front of his. “Wanna go find something shitload times bigger than us and kill it really fucking dead?” 

He blinks at you, then smiles slowly, baring teeth. He stands up, shoving his head back sharply to dislodge you. You laugh as you fall back, bouncing off his rest slab. You watch as he unfolds himself, cracking his back. All your life, you’ve associated trolls of his bloodcaste and size as the enemy, the fuckers you gotta keep on hitting until they’re dead. But he’s just familiar and safe and no matter what he does, you can’t bring yourself to feel threatened by him. 

“Meet you at the gates in ten,” he rumbles lazily, putting the halfdone carving in a drawer and opening the large wardrobe where he keeps his knives. 

You take that as your cue to go find your own weapons, so you move back to the window. 

“Will be waiting for you in five, then,” you tell him, one foot on the windowsill. 

He laughs at that, but it’s okay. He’s not mocking you. He never has. He’s one of the few certainties in your life, part of the reason you can leap without looking, and knowing it’ll be okay. 

It’ll be okay. 

**‡**

The night before you’re set to leave the sanctuary of the city, the Blacksmith requests you all visit her forge. That’s new. She overlooked the construction of the place, and deemed it off-limits to everyone but herself and a handful of hopeful apprentices. It’s her court and personal kingdom, you know, from chatting with a few of the less stiff rustbloods you know. She makes most of the weapons that are used in the city, consistently refusing to let you try and upgrade them in any way. Though you admit that her craftsmanship is impeccable; there’s not really much to improve about them in the first place. For once, you arrive without your partner, since he had business pending with his people, one last ditch attempt to soothe their fears. When you arrive, you find that Spyros and the Nurturer are the only ones missing. The Blacksmith offers you a mock-contemptuous smirk and a nod as you arrive. You grin back, amused. You proposed for her black quadrant, when you met her. She never forgot that. You’re not sure if she still counts it as an offense or not, but the truth is that it amuses you like nothing else, the way she handles herself around you. Taunting and teasing, but not obnoxiously so. She’s a troublemaker at heart, you think; takes one to know one and all. 

“Where’s the Reckless?” She asks you, one eyebrow up. 

You shrug. 

“Blood business, it shouldn’t take him long.” 

When Spyros arrives, half dragging the Nurturer along, the Blacksmith nods to herself, and then motions with her head to an ajar door. You notice, not without amusement, that as you follow her inside, you all fall into place in a very familiar line. You were never all that interested in chromatic theory, but it’s kind of funny, you think, the way you are always organized in progressive line. Or a progressive circle, when the situation requires it. No one really bothers to think much about it, either way. It’s just the way things are. It’s not like blood itself means much, you think, in and of itself. It sets you apart in groups and clans and families, yes. And the purity of blood must be preserved, because any mix between different castes only ends up producing freak mutants that no one wants to deal with. But at the core, trolls are trolls, whether cool or warmblooded. You could make a case for seadwellers being different, but to be honest, seadwellers are just _weird_ , period. 

“I was afraid I would not finish in time,” the Blacksmith says, motioning for the large table pressed up against the left side of the room. “But they’re done.” 

“Holy shit,” the Conqueror whispers, voicing the thought echoing in everyone’s head. 

Lined along the table is a very familiar set of weapons, one you’ve grown familiar with. A culling fork for the Undying, hooked swords for Spit, wicked looking knuckle knives for Spyros, a double-bladed staff for the Scholar, chain whips for the Conqueror, bladed fans for the Orator, a set of daggers for the Conqueror, a glaive for the Dreamer, crescent knives for you, and of course, a fucking huge axe for the Blacksmith herself. There’s even an intricate-looking staff for the Nurturer, though you can’t for the life of you remember ever seeing the man holding any kind of weapon in his hands. You take your knives and weight them as you study the flawless curve of the blades. You know the others are doing much the same, inspecting their new toys. They are solid in your grip, well balanced and sharp as fuck. You’re afraid you might start bouncing in excitement. You look up to find the Blacksmith looking supremely, infuriatingly pleased with herself. You grin at her with all your teeth. 

“You even put my sign on them, holy fuck.” Your eyes narrow as she arches an eyebrow. “Admit it, bitch, you like me.” 

“I’m fairly certain she did the same for all of us, Architect,” the Dreamer says, giving you an amused look. 

“Yeah,” you stick your tongue out at him, “but she’s never threatened to throw any of _you_ out a window.” 

“Threat still stands,” the Blacksmith snaps, but her eyes are dancing. 

Spyros nudges you before you can say anything else, offering to let you see his knives and taking yours to inspect them closely. The room is soon filled with idle chatter and excited little noises as you compare notes, fussing over details and off-handedly complimenting the excellent metalwork. 

“It’s heavy,” the Undying says, and the room falls silent as she shifts the culling fork from one hand to the other. 

It’s a double ended monstrosity that’s almost as tall as she is, golden with a detail in fuchsia spiraling along the handle. The way she’s holding it, it doesn’t seem like it’s heavy at all. The Blacksmith shrugs at her, arms casually folded over her chest. 

“Might as well put that freakish strength of yours to good use, don’t you think?” She smirks, eyes half-lidded in a smug expression. “That thing will last you a lifetime, at least.” 

“I like it,” the Undying says, holding the weapon close, almost affectionately. Then she smiles. “Thank you.” 

There’s an awkward moment of silence, following that, as the Blacksmith’s expression closes off in what you’ve come to term her personal version of embarrassment. She narrows her eyes at the rest of you, as if warning you not to say a word. 

“You know what we should do?” Spit says, taking advantage of the silence, “we should go find something to kill with these.” 

You don’t, in the end, mostly because there are final details to sort out before your departure, but you’re definitely in higher spirits about the whole thing now. You spend the rest of the night perched on Spyros’ shoulder as you do your rounds around the city, knives hanging off your belt with a reassuring weight. 

It’s going to be okay. 

**‡**

You’ve missed traveling, you realize. 

It’s different now, since you’re so few. You move faster, with more purpose. You split the group in three, to make up for the extra eyes and ears you no longer have to spare. Spyros and you often lead the way, perhaps a few miles ahead of the rest, scouting out the terrain. The main group follows you at a slightly slower pace, with the Undying and Spit riding on the single packbeast you brought with you. The Blacksmith and the Scholar close the march, again a couple miles behind you, to cover your tracks. The world has changed much, since you last roamed it. It’s almost as if it has begun to heal, less of a vast wasteland and with more and more signs of budding life everywhere. Most of it is still barren, but there are hints of greenery everywhere and prey is somewhat less scarce than you remember it being. It’s nowhere near as abundant as it is back home, though, in the forests the Nurturer tends to around the city. 

You don’t startle anymore, when you think of the city as home. It is precisely that, after all. Home. Where you belong. Though your interest in your own caste has never waned, you know you’ve never really yearned to go back to the Capital and put yourself under the Administrator’s control again. The land you’re traveling used to be goldblood territory, you think, near the border with the purplebloods. Many trolls drenched it in their blood, in the age of the war, but by now, that seems to have been eons ago. You walk beside your partner, easily keeping his pace despite his longer stride, and for the moment lulled in comfortable quiet. It’s awkward, this thing you two share, by nature. But you feel at ease in his presence in a way you’ve never felt around anyone else, not even your other quadrants. It’s enough that you don’t care if you’ve lost them all for his sake, your fellow goldbloods willing to follow you, but not consort with you. You don’t really miss them, anyway. And Spyros is infinitely better company, anyway. 

He’s fairly nice about the manhandling, all things considered. It’s usually up to you to clamber all over his back, grabbing onto the ropes of hair and generally being a nuisance. So when a giant hand grabs you all of a sudden, the squeak of surprise is pretty genuine. When he flings you up into the air, you twist like a purbeast, sparing less than a second to check if he’ll catch you or not. He does, casually easing you onto his shoulder in a fluid motion, just as the stranger finishes burying his axe right where you were standing a moment ago. You can feel the anger vibrating under his skin as he shifts, feet spreading and back arching forward until he’s resting a fist on the ground to keep his balance. Every muscle is coiling and preparing to spring into action, and the adrenaline is thick in the air. You are a horrible moirail, the worst moirail in the world, because you don’t feel any pale urge to pacify his anger. Instead, it bleeds into your own mood, as surprise evaporates, swiftly replaced by bloodthirsty irritation. 

“You would defend her?” The stranger growls, voice unnaturally booming. Oh great. He’s one of those fuckers that thinks the louder he is, the righter he’ll be. “ _You?_ She’s a fucking goldblood bitch!” 

Looking at him, it’s pretty clear he’s an purpleblood, just going by size alone. Not nearly as big as the troll you’re currently perched on, though, but still enough to be intimidating. There are others with him, too, you notice. At least a dozen other purplebloods, who are not giving the pair of you any friendlier looks. Spyros snarls at him in reply, eyes starting to get bloodshot as his temper begins to unravel. You narrow your eyes, though. The others are still a ways away, and picking a fight when you’re this outnumbered is not the brightest idea. 

“Shoosh, Big Brute,” you whisper, before you balance to half stand on him. You sneer at the other purpleblood with all your might. “Want a piece of me, motherfucker? You’re _on_. You and me, sissyboy, one ond one.” 

“Archi--” 

“‘s okay, Reckless,” you say, then vault over his head - and his horns - to land between him and the other purpleblood, who’s now staring at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind. That’s okay. The less concentrated he is, the easier this is gonna be. “Unless this kid’s too fucking scared to meet a goldblood head on, now that he’s lost his surprise advantage. Eh? So what do you say, asshole, need all of you to take down just us two?” 

The needling’s working, you think, and just barely avoid cackling. The purpleblood is flushed now, eyes narrowed as he snarls back. The others are shifting, but they have stopped advancing. Between what you’ve learned from Spyros and your own upbringing, you think you’ve got a fairly good grasp of purpleblood pride and how to twist it around. If he’s the leader of their little pack, he can’t afford not to fight you now. If you beat him - and you will, come the fuck _on_ \- the rest of the pack will be out of whack long enough for you and Spyros to keep them at bay, at least until the rest catches up. You crack your knuckles loudly, before reaching behind you to unhook your knives from your belt. 

“I will enjoy this,” the pompous asshole is saying, grabbing his axe with great ceremony. You’ll have to mind that fucking thing, it’s nearly as long as you’re tall, shit. “And when I’m done with this, you are next, blood traitor.” 

You tighten your grip on the leather handles and plant your feet as you take your stand, knees slightly bent, head bowed down a notch. Spyros hasn’t changed his posture, but he’s no longer paying attention to you. You count on him to interrupt any attempts by the other purplebloods to meddle in your little duel. He’s got your back, just like always. 

“Bring it on, shithead.” 

Now all you need to do is make sure you still have a back for him to have, once this is over. 

You don’t grin, though fuck, it’s hard not to, when he throws himself at you. He’s fast, considering his size, but he’s laughably slow compared to you. Most trolls are. You sidestep the incoming axe, raising one hand to catch the handle at the center of the curved blade of your knife. Then you twist your wrist and use his momentum to redirect his trajectory, at the same time you bend forward and bring your other hand down in a sharp arc. The tips of the knife score hits on his skin, and he makes a sound of outraged shock as you continue moving, gracefully turning until you’re facing him again. He palms his side, staring at the blood in his fingers and then turning to you with a disbelieving look. Fuck, half the time, you pick up fights just to see that look on a bastard’s face. You grin at him, baring all your teeth as he lets out a furious growl. 

The moment he let himself go into the rage, he essentially gave up the fight. You can hear Spyros chuckling darkly as you change your stand and meet the incoming troll head on. The clash of metal echoes before you abuse his momentum again and bounce back, then push your way forward. Your eyes glow as bright gold electricity arcs between your horns. You avoid the next horizontal strike by turning and twisting in two directions at the same time. You and your projection roll on the ground on landing, then throw yourselves knife first at him. He cries out when you sink both of your knives into his back. He staggers when the projection twists the axe off his loose grip, and gags when the light construct slams a foot right up his solar plexus. He flails around, trying to grab onto you, any one of you, reduced to animalistic cries. 

Your knives are not made for cutting or even stabbing, though fuck if you don’t know how to make them do that just fine. Instead, the crescent shapes are perfect to deflect and redirect attacks, and they’re sharp enough that most cuts you make tend to be the prelude of skinning a motherfucker alive. You cut skin clean off muscle, into flaps that bleed and itch and burn and _hurt_. It’s distracting, more than lethal. The only lethal cut you know is a slash along the throat, but you don’t finish him off yet. You laugh a little as you move around, fighting with all you’ve got and delivering a very much deserved curbstomping to the jackass. You can feel Spyros’ eyes on you, but you don’t let yourself preen with pride yet even though by now, you’re putting up the show for him, more than to the other purplebloods. 

He loves to see you fight - almost as much as he loves fighting you - and you love to have him watch. 

“So you hit hard,” your opponent pants, teeth tightly clenched and painted with his own blood. He still hasn’t landed a single hit on you, and you’re pretty sure you’re two seconds away from getting high on your own adrenaline. “I’ll give you that, little shit.” 

His words annoy you though. No, not annoy. _Enrage_. You snarl at him, dispelling the projection so he can see the fury coiling in your eyes as you narrow them to slits. 

“So I’m small, okay? **_Look_** at me, fucker, I’m really goddamn _small_.” You bare your teeth at him, slowly circling him as you study the best angle from which to deliver the aforementioned slit throat. “Do you have _any_ fucking idea how many things out there want to eat me or kill me or otherwise cause me unspeakable amounts of pain _just_ because I’m small?” He throws a swing of his axe your way, almost half-hearted compared to what he was like in the beginning, and you sidestep it with the same ease. Your foot finds his thigh, just above the knee, and he cries out as you push yourself off from there, his voice nearly obscuring the wet crack of displaced bone. The sound dies into a wet gurgling note as your blades score skin and the blood sprays out his neck. “ _Of course_ I hit fucking hard, asswipe, that’s how I **_survived_**.” 

You spit on him as he collapses, snarling as you absently rub off some of his fucking blood off your face. Motherfucker had to go and ruin a perfectly good fight by being a loud-mouthed idiot. You growl at your partner, as Spyros breaks down cackling, head thrown back. Oh yeah, he thinks it’s real funny that you’re touchy about your size, the fucking shit. So very funny for the guy that’s almost three times your fucking size. You snarl at him for a second, before the other purplebloods snap out of their stupor and attempt to close in on you. Then Spyros’ laugh dies abruptly and he’s on all fours, baring his teeth at them, and you’ve got his back, raising your already purple-stained knives, ready to prove your point about survival. 

“Care to lend me your strength, Girlie?” Spyros growls at you, manic smile splitting his face. “Seems I ought to thin the herd. Purplebloods didn’t use to be this fucking _puny_.” 

You smirk at the snarling purplebloods, eyes glowing as three projections of you come into being and close the flanks as they approach you. 

“Let’s fucking _dance_ , Big Brute.” 

**‡**

  
You hate sand. This is, in fact, a very popular opinion among your group, one specially shared by the seadwellers. Spit never misses a chance to bitch and moan about it, and the Undying always looks sour whenever you trek on deserts. Unfortunately, though the planet is steadily recovering, most of the surface is still pretty arid because, well, _meteors_. Days are the worst, when there isn’t sufficient cover and you need to keep pushing under the blistering sun. It’s a bitch and keeps you all mostly quiet and brooding, save for a few spirited bitching fits from Spit. You’re going deep into goldblood territory, now, so you’ve taken to try and help guide them away from major goldblood settlements you can remember. Spyros keeps you grounded and focused, helping you ignore all those little things quickly piling up into not so small things all the time. You’ve been traveling for nearly two perigees now, and you’re somewhat surprised to see how things have changed thus far. You’ve all known each other for a while now, with the exception of the Undying, though she adapts fast. But you’d never been in such close quarters before, without responsibilities or external issues to deal with. There’s no one here to distract you from each other’s personalities or anyone for whom you have to keep up any kind of pretense. Almost naturally, squabbles build up and break out every so often, catching most of you unprepared to deal with them. You all try to handle the stress and the changes in your situation as best you can, but not all of you are successful.  
  
Surprisingly enough, it’s the Dreamer who seems the most upset. He’s cranky and irritable, deferring to your knowledge of the terrain and trying not to snap too hard. Something’s bugging the limeblood, but fuck if you can figure out what. He and Spit keep snipping at each other’s ankles, figuratively speaking, though you’re not sure how long before it actually becomes a literal thing. You and Spyros have taken to walk with the Orator, the Nurturer and the Conductor, while the Undying, the Dreamer and Spit take the outpost position ahead of the main group. The Conqueror has joined the Blacksmith and the Scholar at the back, though given how obnoxious he can be, it seems the two women don’t really care much about his presence.  
  
There’s tension in the air that keeps you all on edge, and it is precisely that what makes you realize the seadwellers and the Dreamer are, in fact, your leaders. You’ve never had leaders among you, standing on equal ground with each other. While it’s true the Dreamer is the reason you are all involved in this the way you are, he’s never really acted the part of leader, not the way you’re used to. He’s not an Administrator, not by a long shot. The Dreamer doesn’t _order_ anyone around, he just points out where to go. He leads in the most basic sense of the word, giving you direction. It’s very hard to take Spit seriously in any way, but he’s the one who’s been in this boat the longest, and he knows the Dreamer best. He’s not so bad, you suppose, even though most of the time no one does as he says and in fact, a few times, have specifically done exactly the opposite of what he says you should do. The Undying... the Undying is a force of nature, you suppose. You go with the flow, because going against her is _dumb_. Neither of them acts like the type of leader you’re used to, but the more you think about it, the more it takes shape in your head. The Blacksmith is too distant, the Nurturer lives inside his head, and you aren’t even your own’s people leader, much less anyone else’s. The Conductor doesn’t give a fuck. The Orator overcomplicates everything and the Conqueror... is the Conqueror. The Scholar is usually too busy trying to keep peace to focus much on any kind of leadership and Spyros... Spyros doesn’t know how to lead without the blind loyalty he demands from his people. So it’s up to the Dreamer and the seadwellers to pull you all together and refocus your attention to what matters.  
  
Tension finally reaches a breaking point when the Nurturer, in true Nurturer fashion, lands his ass in a sinking sand pit. Somehow. You’re not entirely sure how, you just stare at him because staring and facepalming are your only solace in the face of idiocy.  
  
“I think I need help,” the Nurturer says after a moment of struggling to get out and only managing to sink himself in deeper.  
  
None of you can exactly pull the brownblood out of the pit, but you figure Spit could. So Spyros goes ahead to catch up with the bickering trio while you circle the pit, trying to find a solution. You try to make a chain of projections, but the more you split yourself, the less solid they are, and they can’t handle the strain of pulling him out.  
  
“I can probably wait,” the Nurturer says after a moment, smiling placidly at you. “So it’s okay.”  
  
The fact he’s so calm and flippant about the whole thing only makes it worse, in your opinion. And the Conductor and the Orator bickering about it doesn’t help either. You don’t bother listening to them, not even when the whole thing degenerates into a free-for-all snarkfest with the Nurturer offering platitudes.  
  
“Oh my fucking--fine, Spit, get the fucking moron out of _what the fuck are you doing?_ ”  
  
You look up, but realize the Dreamer isn’t aiming his current frustration at you, but at the Undying, who... seems to be in the process of cutting her hair off with a knife? Maybe? You stare at them for a moment before shrugging as Spit steps in to try and do some meddling with weird ashen overtones between the other two. The next best solution, you think, would be the Conqueror’s whips, but he’s with the Blacksmith and the Scholar, and they haven’t caught up with you yet.  
  
“Because I _felt_ like it,” the Undying snaps snidely, somewhere behind you, “not that you’d be familiar with the concept.”  
  
You ignore the squabble and smile up at Spyros as he comes to stand beside you. You share your idea with the other three, two of whom look disgruntled about it but eventually agree. The Conductor is particularly disdainful of the whole thing, but it’s not like you have much in the way of options. Spyros stays on solid ground - or as solid as non-sinking sand can be anyway, while the rest of you form a chain and hold onto each other as you try to reach the Nurturer. It takes some pulling and grunting and grimacing, but you eventually pull yourselves out of the pit. The Nurturer has sand all the way to his chest, and neither you nor the Conductor look any better. The Orator glares sullenly down at her clothes, then at you, then rolls her eyes while Spyros picks you up and drops you on his shoulder. You laugh a little, if only because it felt... good. They listened to you and your plan worked, and even if it wasn’t the cleanest option, it was an effective rescue. You feel good.  
  
“Oh for fuck’s sake, you two!” Spit yells behind you, and you turn around to see him actually use those swords to disarm the snarling trolls with him. They seem rather stunned to find their hands empty of their respective weapons. “Stop acting like fucking _grubs!_ ”  
  
You stare as the seadweller grabs both the Undying and the Dreamer by the horns and smacks them forehead to forehead, leaving both disoriented. He then turns to snarl at you, volts of violet light arching down the length of his horns. You raise your hands in surrender, not sure you want to get on the bad side of a psychic of his caliber.  
  
“What?” He snaps, “never seen a bit of fucking ashen problem solving?” The Dreamer snorts, just as the Undying scoffs, both of them rubbing their foreheads. Spit snarls. “You two _shut the fuck up_.”  
  
They’re your leaders, you’re certain. It’s not a good thing that they’re coming apart at the seams that way. You’re just not sure how to point it out without making it worse. You’d ask Spyros for advice, but he’s too proud to serve anyone, even hypothetically, and you know he wouldn’t take the idea well at all. The Conductor really couldn’t give less of a shit you think, the way he keeps glaring sullenly at everything, and the Orator is reaching the limits of her unflappable nature. That’s when the other three finally catch up. You groan as the Conqueror looks around you all and tilts his head to the side.  
  
“Did we miss something?”  
  
You still think it’ll be okay, in the end. You’re just not exactly sure how.  
  


**‡**

  
So you lied to them, fine.  
  
You know the place the Dreamer wants to go is in an entirely opposite direction than you’re leading them now. You know that, and you can’t bring yourself to give a single, solitary fuck about it. Tension keeps fluctuating, and the bickering between the three has only spread to everyone else. You’re pretty sure only you and Spyros haven’t been reduced to petty bickering, if nothing else because your entire relationship was already based on it. Everyone looks tired and cranky and it feels like forever since you left home. It _is_ different, when it’s just you eleven, than when you had your clans with you. There’s no one to commiserate with, no one to share secrets with. There’s no one to understand what you’re thinking, to support you unconditionally just because you share the bond of blood.  
  
You’re alone.  
  
So you lie to them, because they’re alone and scared, and instead of filling you with contempt as it would have, twenty sweeps ago, it makes you want to help them. There’s something fundamentally awkward about it, something that makes you look at them and not see their weaknesses as exploitable, but as things you have to compensate for. When you ask Spyros about it, he says with some dark amusement that you make it sound like you’re a pack. You think about that, long and hard, as you cross the desert that eventually melts into a steppe and then into a thin, regrowing forest, and your conclusion is what makes you lie to them and redirect your course.  
  
You _are_ a pack, or at least you’re trying to be. You have to, there’s no way for any of you to survive on your own out here. Once you reach that conclusion, looking at the fights and bickering starts to take on a different note. This kind of realization is dangerous on the road, you think, when you have to fight scavengers and hunt prey and avoid the fact that this planet is frankly a deathtrap waiting to happen. You just hope this impulsive, half-baked plan of yours works out, you’re not really used to trying to fix _people_ as opposed to things.  
  
“What’s this?” The Dreamer asks, staring up at the impressive-looking wall across the sizeable moat.  
  
The wall itself is tall and bare of any ornaments, plated with steel for extra endurance. There’s a drawbridge in it, somewhere, but it’s not really apparent until it starts moving. The opening between you and the citadel is filled with spikes and an acid solution in the water that dissolves flesh so very nicely. You shrug at the Dreamer’s question.  
  
“Where we’re staying the day,” you tell him, arching an eyebrow. “There’s supplies, it’s easily defensible, and we need a rest.”  
  
“That sounds lovely,” the Dreamer admits, though he’s giving you a dubious look. You wonder if he knows you lied about this being en route to your destination. “But are you sure it’s safe?”  
  
“Chill, Dreamlord,” you grin at him, “I was the one who locked the door last time. Just wait here and let me invite you into my home. Hey, Big Brute, throw me over the wall, will you?”  
  
“Sure,” Spit says, as Spyros grabs you without a second thought. “Ask the big troll to throw you, it’s not like you have a reliable psychic with you. A reliable, powerful psychic willing to--”  
  
You don’t hear the rest of what he’s saying, because Spyros does throw you like a ragdoll across the chasm, and you’re laughing even as you split mid-air. You land against the wall, holding onto the metal for your dear life, while your projections fly clean over the wall and trigger the traps. Once you feel the projections die, you scramble up the last few meters of wall, clawing at the edges where metal and stone meet, and then vaulting over it to let yourself down through one of the very few blindspots in the security grid. You land on the courtyard after a tense moment, as the sound of crossbows reloading echoes, but nothing else happens. You run along the wall up to the nearby tower, invisible from the outside as the wall itself hides it from view. Inside, you find the controls of the drawbridge are just as you remember leaving them, and grin as you pull the lever down. The entire city seems to hum as the old mechanisms switch and twist, coming to life under it.  
  
You run back to watch the release air as an entire chunk of the wall shifts and lowers, metal and rock articulated by pneumatic and hydraulic joints. It’s surprisingly not as noisy as you would have expected, considering how many sweeps it’s been since it last moved. But then, goldblood stuff is made to last, you know. You wave at them, standing at the end of the bridge. Of course Spyros is the first one to step on it and walk towards you, but the rest eventually follow, somewhat reluctantly. Once the bridge has been drawn up again, you climb onto Spyros’ shoulders as he unconsciously shifts to all fours. You don’t take offense only because he’s a purpleblood and that’s the natural reaction for them, when entering goldblood turf.  
  
“What happened in this place?” The Orator asks you as you lead them to the center of the citadel, as the Conqueror peers around the various buildings, sometimes sticking his head through open doors. “It’s in remarkable shape, to have been abandoned as you said.”  
  
“The Administrators happened,” you say, shifting your weight atop your partner to match up the tilts of his shoulders as he moves. “There was nothing _wrong_ with the citadel, they just decided one day that our methods weren’t good enough, reassigned everyone somewhere else and slanted it for destruction.”  
  
“I can’t help but notice how much it’s not destroyed,” Spit murmurs, eyes narrowed as he looks at everything around him with a suspicious squint.  
  
“Well, like fuck we were going to let them destroy this place, Spit,” you laugh, a little bitter and a little sad. The sadness surprises you, but you try not to let it show. “Do you have any idea how many prototypes and experiments we had in development? The Director knew someone who knew someone who owed him big, and the destruction orders were unfortunately lost in the paperwork.”  
  
“How quaint,” the Conductor notes dryly, the sanctimonious prick.  
  
“Quite,” you snort back, rolling your eyes. “The idea was just to lock it away and petition for it to be reopened a few sweeps later, once the then current Administrators cycle ended and the new ones were elected. But then the Director died and the war got worse, and then woo! Meteors. Pretty much all goldbloods that survived the meteors ran back to the Capital which, much like this place, seems to have survived the meteors pretty well. But the guys I used to work with here were all dead by then.”  
  
“I’ve always wondered about that,” the Scholars murmurs, and you not-quite startled to realize she’s walking at Spyros’ right. You could have sworn the Dreamer and the Undying were standing there a second ago. “I’ve always thought it’s an irrational reaction, but the meteors felt... like an intentional attack. Like there was something controlling them.”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, you think there’s someone who could control _meteors_?” The Conqueror asks, falling into step with her as you begin to walk up the stairs of the main hivestem in the citadel.  
  
“I don’t know,” the Scholar shrugs, “but didn’t it feel like they were focused on the highest troll population areas?” She shoots a look at the Blacksmith, and the rustblood shrugs, looking vaguely uncomfortable. The Scholar sighs. “Like I said, it’s irrational. I suppose it’s the natural reaction in the face of what happened to us.”  
  
Spyros rumbles under you, unwilling to put his thoughts to words. You pat his shoulder absently, and guide them through the maze of corridors inside the main hivestem. It’s safe here, you tell them, because all experiments and prototypes are in the workshops and labs located in every other hive in the citadel. You very politely ask them not to blow you all up, by keeping away from them. Other than that, you assure them they can let themselves relax a little and recover from all the non-stop traveling you’ve done so far.  
  
You notice the Undying and the Dreamer at the very back of the group, too engrossed in hissing at each other to listen to what you’re saying. You hope your idea works, because those two seem at the end of their rope.  
  


**‡**

  
“Can’t sleep, Dreamlord?”  
  
You watch his reflection in one of the monitors startle as your voice surprises him. You grin and turn around in your chair, waving at him. He relaxes after a moment, shuffling somewhat ruefully to where you are.  
  
“Maybe a little,” he admits, coming to sit next to you as you turn back to the keyboard. When you nod at him, he ventures a soft question, “what is that thing?”  
  
“This?” You hit a few keys, changing the display before you. “It’s a computer. I’ve been trying to recreate one back home, you know the last seven or eight times I’ve made something explode on accident in the last sweep?”  
  
He chuckles wryly, which you consider victory enough. You _like_ him, honestly. You think of him as a friend and it bugs you to see him so off his game. Not just because he’s your leader - and you know it even if no one else does - and that’s dangerous for you all, but because he’s your _friend_. He folds himself further into the chair, feet resting at the edge of it and arms folded on his knees as he watches you work.  
  
“What does it do?”  
  
“It’s... it’s like a fake brain.” You’re not entirely sure how to explain it without going into electronics theory and you’re fairly certain the Dreamer, being a limeblood, has no fucking idea what a transistor is. “Like, it solves problems and does stuff you tell it to. Mostly math, but then, everything can be reduced to math with enough practice. This one is hooked onto the main network here. There’s wiring all over the place and it lets it talk to other computers and share information. And then it tells me what it’s doing here.” You tap the monitor with a claw. And maybe you’re smiling a little too fondly. “They eat up energy like nothing else, though. These ones still work because the citadel is built over a geothermal vent that powers pretty much everything in here.”  
  
“That’s _fascinating_.”  
  
You grin at the look on his face, feeling oddly proud even if nothing here is your doing. This is the kind of thing you’d like to bring into the city, the kind of knowledge that would help make life easier for everyone. You’ve always thought the future is in computers, though they were always passed on by the Administrators, because their applications for the war were so limited and resources were always tight. The city is not at war though, and though resources are tighter, there are also no restrictions for you, if you can procure them on your own. Maybe once this little quest is over, you’ll manage to introduce this kind of technology for trolls at large.  
  
“They can predict the future?” The Dreamer interrupts, as you start explaining the security grid.  
  
“Well, no, not like you can,” you say, smiling at him and trying not to squint at his expression. “They don’t _know_ the future, they just calculate the odds of something happening, but just because it’s probable doesn’t mean it’ll happen. Or vice versa.” You scratch your head near the base of your left horn. “Like, okay, the Undying. You predicted she’d arrive on a specific day, and she did. A computer couldn’t have done that, because the odds of there being another caste we didn’t know about were so slim it was nearly impossible.” You frown at him. “Computers can’t replace trolls, Dreamlord, they don’t think on their own. They make mistakes.”  
  
“So do trolls,” he says, leaning back thoughtfully.  
  
You bite your lip, finding yourself standing in front of a line you’re not sure you should cross. You think of Spyros. Of course he’d cross it, fuck the rest of the world. You let the silence last a few minutes as you make up your mind.  
  
“What’s wrong?” You blurt out after a moment, raising your hands in a placating gesture as he startles again. “I mean, not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, okay, that’s more the Conqueror’s thing, but.” You look for the right words, only to find they won’t come to you. “But you’ve been... acting weird, lately.”  
  
He looks uncomfortable, and you regret opening your mouth already. He shifts in place, as if the seat is the source of his unease. Before you can take it back, though, he sighs.  
  
“I’m running out of dreams,” he says, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. “I still dream things, but the dreams are not... not as explicit as they used to be.”  
  
You feel like the air has been forced out of your airsacks with a punch.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I know where we’re going,” he sounds frustrated and afraid, in a way that makes your own fears feel insignificant. “I’ve always known where we’re going. I know what’s waiting for us at the end, but I know nothing of what our journey will be like.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“I used to dream every detail, Architect,” he shakes his head, then looks up at the ceiling, voice wistful. “I dreamed entire conversations and battles and nights and nights of travel. I used to know exactly where we had to stand and who should fight who and who was going to kill who. But I haven’t dreamed a single thing we’ve done in this journey, so far. Only our destinations, what we will do once we get there.”  
  
His fear is fascinating, if nothing because between you and Spyros, you’ve both overcome it a long time ago. You are about to offer a little laugh and tell him that’s just what life’s like, when you realize something. That’s life for people like you and Spyros and the others. The uncertainty of the future is not terrifying because it has always been there. But for someone like the Dreamer, someone raised and always surrounded by his own prophecies and those of his own kin...  
  
“Oh,” you say, blinking a little. Then you offer a sincere smile. “It’ll be okay.”  
  
“How do you know?” He wants certainty, he wants to know exactly where he’s standing. You shake your head at him.  
  
“I just do, Dreamlord. It’ll be okay.” You reach a hand to pat his knee, the gesture borderline pale, but you don’t care. “It’s like your prophecies, right? How you can’t tell us things sometimes, because if we knew what you did, things would be different. Well, it’s just that this time the prophecy involves you.”  
  
He swallows hard.  
  
“But what if I’m wrong? What if I screw up?”  
  
“If you screw up, you screw up.” You shrug at him, and shake his head. “And then you stop staring and figure out a way to fix it, that’s all. We’re all in this together, Dreamlord, it’ll be okay. Just do what feels right and the pieces will eventually fall in place. They always do.”  
  
“You make it sound like it’s so easy--”  
  
“It’s not easy,” you interrupt him, tilting your chin up at him. “It’s _simple_. There’s a difference.” When he gives you a questioning look, you shrug. “Easy means it doesn’t hurt, and if it doesn’t hurt it’s probably not worth the effort. Simple might be very hard to do, but it’s usually more than worth it.”  
  
He smiles at you.  
  
“Spit said something like that, too.”  
  
You arch both eyebrows at him, grinning deviously.  
  
“Sometimes even Spit can be right.”  
  


**‡**

  
“Just so we’re all perfectly clear,” Spit says, sliding off the packbeast with a grunt, “this is _tiresome_. This means once I’m done, you’ll have to fend for yourselves for several days, because I ain’t risking burnout just to save your collective, puny ass.”  
  
There are eyerolls and exasperated shifting all around you. The atmosphere is a lot less violently tense, though, than it was before your detour into the goldblood citadel. The nights you spent there clearly helped defuse most tempers, and though your three leaders still bicker and trade barbs, it’s a lot less venomous, you think. The Dreamer and the Undying can even bear to walk side by side without it degenerating into violence. You tell no one of your deceit, not even Spyros. You also tell no one of your conversation with the prophet or his fears. But every so often he’ll meet your eyes and tilt his head in acknowledgement of you. It’s nice, that, the feeling that someone appreciates you for your worth. Now, after nearly another perigee of travel, the Dreamer has announced you’re here.  
  
Here is kind of anticlimactic, though, given it’s just a flat stretch of land with grass just barely growing back. Spit shuffles forward and away from you, kneeling down to place a palm on the ground, sparks of violet racing down his arm. He sighs and walks further away.  
  
“I can give you an hour, tops,” he says, as a final warning. “And I don’t care if you’re still down there after an hour, I’m letting you fuckers behind, no regrets.”  
  
Before anyone can offer a retort - and oh, by now everyone is fairly good at offering retorts to Spit - or even ask a question, the seadweller’s eyes burn violet and volts of electricity run down his arms and into the ground.  
  
And then the ground _shakes_.  
  
“Holy fucking _shit_.”  
  
The earth crumbles under his feet, raising up in large chunks of rock and grass that circle around him in lazy orbits. Then he raises up, above the large hole he just opened to reveal the ground is almost hollow under your feet. It shakes again, harder this time, as something begins to emerge from the ground, wrapped in the tell-tale violet glow of Spi---of the Spiteful’s powers. You knew the fucker was powerful, sure, but you didn’t know he was _this_ strong. You know you’re not the only one staring as the hole on the ground tears open some more and an entire building of sorts raises up to the surface. It’s huge. A tower of some sort, with a giant frog at the top. There are seven pillars around it, topped with spheres of rock. All along the surface, volts of violet light arch and curl as the Spiteful raises it until the tip of the staircase is right before you.  
  
“Oh, do fucking stare some more,” the seadweller yells at you, from high above. “Take your fucking time! It’s not like keeping this up is draining or anything!”  
  
The Dreamer laughs at that, shaking his head as he takes the first step up the stairs. After a moment, the rest of you follow him, ignoring the stench of sulphur in the air, always associated with Spit’s powers, and the static crackling all around you. You keep close to Spyros as you move inside, trailing after the Dreamer as he moves with confidence you greatly appreciate.  
  
“Don’t touch anything,” he says, stopping the Conqueror without having to even look at him. “The secrets of this place are not mean for us.”  
  
The walls are covered in glyphs you don’t recognize, illuminated by light coming out of nowhere. Surprisingly, there seems to be only a single room in the building, with a large circular gap at the center. The Dreamer walks purposely towards the opposite wall and presses his fingers on a glyph. A switch, apparently, as the entire structure shakes again. You peer at the hole in the center and stare as another pillar rises slowly, completing the floor. There’s a large, box-like platform at the center of it, with what looks like a giant purple flower on it and a counter on all four sides. The ground around it is decorated on the same circle design that is everywhere in the walls, a spirograph, you think it’s called. Around the large one, there are smaller ones, with--  
  
“Dreamer?”  
  
“I know,” he says, not taking his eyes off the flower. You realize the counter is quickly ticking down.  
  
Your signs are on the ground, painted the adequate color. There are other signs, there, ones you’re not really familiar with, that match up your bloodcolor. You walk around the circle as the others shift around uneasily, and stare at one in particular, painted bright candy red and breaking the harmony of the chromatic circle, right at the place where the Dreamer’s counterpart should be in lime green. You notice the Undying’s sign is in both groups, and that its direct opposite - in jade green, what the fuck? - also repeats itself.  
  
There’s something weird about this place, something off putting and unnatural. Like you shouldn’t be here at all. No one is really saying anything, instead studying the glyphs on the walls or the strange picture in the ceiling: a spirograph with five of those unknown signs and the Undying’s around it. And then further away, after a thick, dotted circle enclosing the other figures, a tiny circle connected to a smaller one by a line. You don’t know what any of that means, but you can’t shake the feeling that it’s important somehow. After a moment, you realize the pattern of the ceiling matches the exact disposition of the building itself. It looks like a temple of some sort, but it seems thousands of sweeps old, if not more. You wonder who could have built it.  
  
The moment the counter reaches zero, the strange flower glows. You tense, expecting an explosion, but it merely spews out some white shapes. You stare in fascination as the flower closes up and the timer resets, weirdly enough, for six thousand one hundred twenty sweeps, if you’re doing the math right. You stare as you realize that the design on the floor has changed. The whole thing is a muted grey now, and the spaces the familiar signs you know have been replaced with new designs.  
  
“We’re done here,” the Dreamer says, gathering the strange objects and placing them inside his bag.  
  
You are all quiet as you step down the strange ruins, caught in your own thoughts as Spit lowers it back in place, even restoring the crust of earth hiding it from view. The land is left as you found it, flat and unassuming, with its secrets once more hidden from the world.  
  


**‡**

  
You’ve all recovered, more or less, from your ordeal in the weird frog temple. No one has really asked questions, and the Dreamer hasn’t volunteered any information about it, so by unspoken agreement, no one talks about it. You notice the Dreamer clutching his bag at all times, but you say nothing about it. It changed you all, though. Somehow. It takes you several perigees to figure out why. You share a secret now, all of you. Something that has nothing to do with blood or politics or quadrants or anything. It’s your secret, the one thing you all have in common that no one else would understand. You’re more of a pack now, as Spyros would say, because of it. It’s a bond you share with no one else, and it somehow quenches the feeling of loneliness and otherness that had made the first leg of the journey so overwhelming.  
  
It also helps you’re going through brownblood land now, or what used to be brownblood land, anyway, and much of it has flourished back into thick, green forests. The presence of so much plant-life makes the Nurturer a bit more prone to randomly start laughing about nothing in particular, which is kind of really creepy, if you have to be honest. The Nurturer is, pun wholly intended, a tough nut to crack. No one really likes the guy, though he doesn’t seem to care much at all. The brownbloods back in the city grovel around him like he’s some kind of holy thing, and you’ve always sort of figured that’s why the Dreamer keeps him around. But he never fights, he never really talks to anyone unless it involves plants somehow or he’s being asked a straightforward question. And even when he does talk, it’s never for long. Trolls have never had much use for plants, anyway, which makes conversation topics with him scarce. Sure, wood can be useful and and some fruits are good to eat, but stone lasts longer than wood and trolls are carnivores by nature. The Nurturer’s bizarre fixation with greenery and his insistence he’s talking to them have always rubbed you the wrong way.  
  
But you suppose there must be something about him that’s truly valuable. Particularly now, that he’s proven _all_ brownbloods treat him with respect, not just the ones that used to travel with you. Having him around has saved you all kind of fights as you trek through their territory. They call him _wedel_ , which you’ve summarized is some kind of priest-like office. You remember him talking about how brownbloods get their titles and can’t help but grimace a little when they bring him heads. Ignoring for a moment that you’re pretty sure they _eat_ the heads - the soup is very important, indeed - you would never want to be titled by the Nurturer of all people. Still, he might be weird as fuck, but you don’t really have a quarrel with him. It’s not like he’s ever _done_ anything, to you or anyone else. Not everyone shares your opinion, though. The Conductor, specifically, rarely speaks at all, but of the late he seems to have choice snide remarks for the brownblood. The Conqueror is uneasy around him, too, but that’s probably because bluebloods are actually still at war with the brownbloods and more than once he’s gotten dark looks when you stay in brownblood settlements.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
It takes a moment to realize whose voice it is, as you shift around the borrowed hut, finishing the last preparations to leave. It’s another thing you’ve noticed, the way that you’re never out of each other’s sight even as you travel. Even the distances between the scouting, main and back groups are shorter now, though you can’t pinpoint when exactly they began to shrink. You look up to find the Nurturer standing on the doorway, giving you all that same, placid smile of his.  
  
“Nurturer?” The Dreamer asks, adjusting the bag holding your treasures. “Is something the matter?”  
  
“I have something left to do, before we leave,” he says, shrugging easily. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed here while I’m gone.”  
  
Something changes in the Dreamer’s expression, flickering only for a moment before it’s gone. He nods.  
  
“Of course.” As the Nurturer turns to leave, the Dreamer looks around the hut, shrugging. “I suppose we might as well enjoy one last meal before we leave, then.”  
  
No one seems to mind or care much. The Conductor makes the expected snide remark, but that’s it. You look over at the doorway a tad wistfully a few times, but no one seems to notice. At least until you find the Conqueror walking by your side, as you all make your way to the largest building in the little village. There’s curiosity in his eyes, to mirror yours.  
  
You like the Conqueror, obnoxious, loud brat that he can be. He likes to ask questions almost as much as you do, and for one he actually asks the right sort of questions. He’s impulsive and doesn’t really think things through, but unlike you it’s mostly because he tends not to think, period. He’s fun, though. A good partner to have, when it comes to schemes and Spyros is busy doing something else.  
  
You grin at him and don’t notice the Dreamer giving you both one of his long-suffering looks.  
  


**‡**

  
Following after the Nurturer is easier than you expected. He doesn’t bother to hide his tracks at all, and you’re soon hiding behind trees and bushes, a few yards behind him. In true Nurturer fashion, of course, he doesn’t acknowledges your presence at all. Probably hasn’t even noticed you. He walks briskly, though, at a pace you’ve never seen him move before, undeterred by the overgrowth all around you. He stops abruptly, at the edge of a clearing. The Conqueror catches your eye and offers you a hand as he uncoils one of his whips and uses it to pull you both up into the branches of a large tree. From above, you shuffle quietly about the branches, lying on them to peer down at the trolls below.  
  
And there are several dozen trolls, below. It’s a camp of some sorts, but they’re clearly not brownbloods. No brownblood ever receives the Nurturer with their weapons drawn. You look over at the Conqueror, but he seems to be frozen in place, staring at the other trolls.  
  
“You’re not welcome here,” the Nurturer says, words echoing in the tense silence below. You figure that if necessary, you can probably drop down and offer some help. “Neither of my people want you here.”  
  
One of the trolls takes a step forward. You’re already half crouching, ready to join the fry, when the earth shakes and you’re forced to hold onto the branch to keep your balance. Below you, thick vines, covered in thorns, have raised from the ground, easily snaring the strangers. They take a moment to stare dumbly at their captured limbs, before they start swearing. You might have screamed too, when a vine wraps around you, forcefully dragging you down. The Conqueror is not fairing any better. Unlike the other trolls, however, the vines holding you are not covered in thorns. You blink as they leave you hanging near the Nurturer and he looks up at you both with a very delicate frown.  
  
“I asked you to stay back,” he says, head tilted slightly. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”  
  
“ _You_ are doing this?” The Conqueror asks, a very noticeable tint of fear to his voice.  
  
“Of course not,” the Nurturer says, yet as if to directly contradict his words, one flick of his wrist has the vines on the other trolls tightening and pulling, causing them to scream in pain. The Nurturer looks unperturbed. “The Quiet Ones are. I merely asked them for assistance.”  
  
The screaming reaches an abrupt end, replaced instead by the sick, wet sound of skin, muscle and bone being forcefully torn apart. You stare as the carcasses are reduced to bloodied lumps of flesh, caught in the writhing thorns. They were bluebloods, that much is pretty fucking obvious right now. All of a sudden, you are _so_ not okay with being held by a vine, there are not even words for it. But having seen the quick efficiency of it, you’re also not in a hurry to start struggling in the hold. The Nurturer watches as the vines writhe around some more, effectively smearing blood everywhere.  
  
“Oh,” he says, turning back to look at you, since the Conqueror, unlike you, is struggling in earnest. Your breath catches in your throat. “Of course.”  
  
The vines holding you in place shift again and you brace yourself, but the only thing that happens is that they let you down, waiting until you’re firmly on your feet before releasing you. You can’t help but pat your body around, casually confirming that you are both whole and unthorned. The Conqueror is doing pretty much the same thing, before you both turn to stare at the Nurturer again. He has that idiotic smile of his in place again, placid and nonchalant. If you’re perfectly honest, you think you might have nightmares about it.  
  
“...okay, credit where credit’s due,” the Conqueror says, breaking the tense silence in the clearing, looking between you and the Nurturer, “that was pretty fucking cool, you gotta admit.”  
  
The sound of your palm slapping your own face echoes in the night.  
  


**‡**

  
“But it _doesn’t make sense_ ,” you tell Spyros, riding on his shoulder as he moves at a leisure pace. “It’s scientifically _impossible_.”  
  
You’re the closing group, for now, with the Conqueror and the Nurturer as scouts and the rest following a distance away. You feel almost bad for the Nurturer, now that the Conqueror has become fascinated by his powers and keeps pestering him all night about it. On the one hand, at least someone _talks_ to the guy now. Everyone else seems mildly curious about the whole thing, but not enough to ask. And of course, the Dreamer smiles that knowing smile of his, and says nothing at all.  
  
When he’s not picking a fight with the Undying, that is.  
  
There’s something going on between those two, something extremely volatile that makes the rest of you turn the other way and pretend you aren’t there. Even you. You’ve learned your lesson, you think, after the incident with the Nurturer, about sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Some things you’re definitely better off not knowing.  
  
“Archie,” Spyros says, coming to a stop and nearly toppling you off his shoulders. He reaches both hands to hold you, just so he can talk to you face to face. “You routinely make clones of yourself made out of solidified _light_. Your entire fighting style is based around that ability of yours.”  
  
“Yeah,” you squint at him, somewhat squirming in his grasp, since you don’t particularly like the way he’s holding you. It’s like you’re a stray purbeast or something. “So?”  
  
“So you have that power,” Spyros goes on, amused beyond words. “And yet you’re throwing a hissy fit because Nurts there can make plants do what he wants? _Really?_ ”  
  
“That’s not the _point_ ,” you say, rolling your eyes even as he puts you back on your perch. “Mine make sense!”  
  
“Solidified light clones make sense, duly noted then.”  
  
You hate it when he uses that tone. It’s so unbelievably pacifying and pale, it’s almost enough to make you sick. He’s trying to make you laugh, too. Get you out of that mental rut you’ve talked yourself into. It’s part of those ‘moirail duties’ of his, as he likes to call them. To keep you from getting lost inside your own head. You hate how his words should sound condescending and yet they don’t, simply because there’s so much affection in his voice. You feel the urge to throw a tantrum and instead huff irritably as you shift around to get comfortable again.  
  
“They _do_ , Big Brute,” you mutter. “Plants don’t even have _brains_. How do they even move and grow that way if they don’t have brains? Or muscles. Or _anything!_ ”  
  
“You’re just thinking too much,” he retorts, amusement leaking down his tone. “All you need is--Hang on tight.”  
  
You let out a yelp in surprise as he lunges forward, taking off on all fours. You’re left clinging onto his back as he picks up speed, but you don’t question him. Spyros knows danger like no one else, to the point he likes to say they’re drinking buddies, he and Certain Death. So if he says you should hang on tight, you do, inwardly preparing to fight whatever has set him on edge. What you find, after frantic minutes of running, is the Dreamer sitting on the ground, clutching his torso. Bleeding. The others are clustered around him, while Spit snaps at them to stay back.  
  
“The fuck happened here?” Spyros demands, standing up to his full height to loom over the others. He only does that when he’s running out of patience and wants answers as soon as yesterday. He’s big enough that having you sitting on his shoulder does absolutely nothing to take away from the intimidating look. “Well?”  
  
“The Undying--”  
  
“I misspoke,” the Dreamer interrupts the Orator, leveling her - and everyone else - with a very terse glare. Even Spyros wilts a little, under that look. “I said something rather unfortunate, and the Undying snapped back. I’m fairly sure she overestimated my skill in parrying off her attacks.”  
  
You stare at him, and know you’re not the only one. He and the Undying have been at each other’s heels again, except now they’ve taken to spar a little, after you’re done setting camp each night. You’re pretty sure the Undying can easily curbstomp every troll present, including you and your partner, if she ever puts her mind to it. You’ve seen her fight and you’ve seen her take hits and wounds that would kill most trolls. The title the Dreamer gave her is rather fitting: she’s very, very hard to kill. But even at her angriest, she has never hurt the Dreamer before. Or any one of you. This is, in fact, the first time a member of the Council has wounded another. You can tell the precise moment the realization sinks, as the atmosphere around you turns somber. The Dreamer looks up at you all and shakes his head.  
  
“She didn’t try to kill me... well, she _did_ ,” he goes on, offering a weak laugh, “but I don’t think she _meant_ it. She wouldn’t have run away if she had.”  
  
He stands up after a moment, ignoring the way Spit hovers around him. He doesn’t even bother to give the seadweller a cursory glare, and that’s when you start getting worried. That’s one of those Big Things No One Talks About, the fact Spit and the Dreamer are quasi-kinda-almost-Kismesis. Or they would be, if being open about it wouldn’t send the entire city into an uproar. It’s not like they’re _subtle_ about it, either. They fuss about each other all the time, criticizing everything and keeping each other on their toes. The only reason no one says anything is because they’ve never taken their flirting to the level of actual physical fights. But the point is that they’re a constant in your lives. They’re always at it, one way or another. The fact that the Dreamer is actively ignoring Spit - and you hate yourself for noticing the hurt in the seadweller’s eyes - only makes the situation feel worse.  
  
And then, for the first time since you’ve met him, and quite possibly since anyone has met him, given the looks on the other’s faces, the Dreamer explicitly _orders_ you to stay back.  
  
He leaves you there, stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere, while he goes off to find the missing seadweller. Spit sulks on his own, glaring murder at anyone who tries to approach him, and even letting volts of violet arc between his horns as a warning, when someone insists too much. The rest of you huddle around a makeshift fire, all but the Nurturer clearly distressed. The Nurturer, as always, doesn’t even seem to notice what’s going on around him, but he sits with you anyway, probably at the Conqueror’s urging. Chatter is stilted and nervous and not particularly productive. When the sun goes up, you huddle inside cloaks to hide from the sun and refuse to set camp properly. The day is hot and unbearable and you should be sleeping it off, instead of sit on dirt and staring at nothing in particular.  
  
Three days and three nights, you wait there, and this time, you think the rest have come to understand, who your leaders are. You see it in the way they look lost or confused or resentful, eyes shifting from the sulking Spit to the direction in which the Dreamer and the Undying left. Three nights and their respective days of no sleep, little food and less chatter. Even the Conqueror has no supremely inappropriate comment to make on this.  
  
The fourth night, a few hours after dusk, the Dreamer and the Undying come back. She’s cut her hair again, but the short mess looks almost tame, like someone did it for her. She meets everyone’s eyes with a flat, unrepentant stare, standing behind the Dreamer and clutching her culling fork in a white-knuckled grip. The Dreamer himself looks fine, and though there’s dry blood on his clothes, there is no actual wound to be found on his skin. He shows you, but all that’s left are three thin, long scars in the place where the cuts should have been. He explains nothing, and neither does the Undying. You awkwardly go about setting camp, right where you are, and the Scholar and the Blacksmith volunteer to go hunt something to replenish your supplies.  
  
“We will enter the desert soon,” the Dreamer announces, as you sit in a circle around the fire. He ignores the questioning stares. “We need to restock our supplies entirely before we do.”  
  
This is worse than when the fights first started. The tense, awkward atmosphere hangs onto all of you, with an uncertainty that’s bothersome. You’re all tired and cranky and now that the others have recognized where the leadership lies among you, you desperately need somewhere to rest and recover and readjust to the shift in your relationships with each other. But you don’t have a goldblood citadel nearby to do it, nor any other sort of safehouse to shelter the others while they adapt. The only respite the Dreamer offers you all is the time it takes you to gather your supplies.  
  
It’ll be okay, you tell yourself, so long as the others can accept the unspoken without fuss.  
  
Right.  
  


**‡**

  
Tension dissipates, amazingly enough, without anyone having to say or explain anything.  
  
It’s partly the Undying’s doing, you think. Or well, her lack of doing. Not a single attempt to explain what the fuck is going on inside her head, but at the same time, that seemed to imply that there’s _nothing_ going on. She and the Dreamer are back on speaking terms, if not downright friendly of late. And the strange thing is that it’s not forced at all. The Dreamer is a very even-tempered troll, sure, but you’re pretty sure not even him would take an attack as a sign of friendship. And yet, there they are, walking together now, chatting about nothing in particular, with an ease that slowly leaks out to the rest of your group. She doesn’t mediate between him and Spit anymore, though, instead standing back and letting the two have their bickering fits at their own leisure. You can all tell something changed between them, but it’s impossible to decipher _what_. All in all, though, the seadwellers are almost _chirpy_ , considering you’re traveling the desert in earnest now. And the limeblood is back in control, once more serene and sure of himself.  
  
After the fourth week of their nonchalant antics, you metaphorically throw up your hands in the air, and decide to keep your thoughts to yourself. You also choose to ignore the utterly amused looks Spyros keeps giving you, and instead entertain yourself cataloging the shades of purple and pink in the sand. The heat is infernal and you want nothing more than to find enough water you don’t feel like you’re wasting it by splashing it on your skin. The heat and the sand make your hide itch so much it almost feels like you’re molting. You dearly hope you won’t, though. The Orator began molting about three days after you ventured into the desert and the Dreamer ended up guiding you all right back out after only half a night, because no one could handle her bitching.  
  
“Here we are,” the Dreamer announces one day, sighing contently.  
  
“Are you sure?” The Undying quips dryly, arching both eyebrows at him. “Are you sure it’s not the next dune over?”  
  
“Cute,” the Dreamer retorts just as dryly, rolling his eyes at her in good humor. “But no. It’s here. Spit, do your thing.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Spit grumbles into his arms and refuses to move.  
  
He’s thrown on the packbeast’s back, more like a ragdoll than anything. The desert has not been kind to him. It hasn’t been for any of you, but he seems to be taking it the hardest. The rest of you shuffle around, waiting. After a moment, the seadweller lets out a suffering sigh and pushes himself off his mount, taking a moment to knock back a long gulp from his gourd. Then he stumbles about a little unsteadily around. It doesn’t really inspire much confidence, the way he’s moving, but you know better than to ask if he’s up to the task. He looks like he wants to get it done as fast as possible. He kneels down like he did the other time, letting volts of his power dig in deep, as if testing the metaphorical waters of the what’s before him.  
  
“Fuck,” he says, standing up and shaking his hand free of sand. He turns to the Dreamer with a grimace. “There’s no fucking way I’m dragging this one out. I’m just going to try and clear the sand and hold it up while _you_ do your thing. Okay?” The Dreamer nods. “Okay. Here goes.”  
  
His eyes glow as he raises his arms and the sand vibrates under your feet. As it begins to spin and raise into carefully controlled tornadoes, the sand under your feet begins to slide. The Conqueror lets out a little shriek of surprise as you feel Spit’s powers take hold of you. You squirm a little in the hold, uncomfortable. It’s flexible and at the same time it’s not, and it you hate it, but there’s nothing you can do about it. Spit doesn’t seem to notice you at all as he raises more and more tornados, violet light flickering along the swirls of sand as bit by bit the temple is revealed. It looks much like the other one, except the pillar outside the circle is missing and there’s some sort of construction near the top where the frog is. Spit places you all carefully at the base of the stairs, and you can’t help the shudder as he releases his hold.  
  
“How long?” The Dreamer yells up at the seadweller.  
  
“Not too long!” He yells back, waving his hands around as the sand tornadoes move around the edges of the pit, trying to keep sand from giving into gravity.  
  
With one last look at him, you follow the Dreamer into the temper, hurrying along the stairs. The inside is much the same as the previous one. The motif on the ceiling is different to match the design of the temple, but everything else is much the same. Unlike the other one, however, the platform is already raised, and the strange flower thing is already visible when you arrive. When the timer reaches zero, the flower spews out more white things and a large black orb with... what looks like troll horns on it. The design of the floor changes again, your signs nowhere to be found on it. But the flower doesn’t close again, and the timer doesn’t reset.  
  
“Be careful not to touch this one,” the Dreamer cautions you - Spyros, more than anyone, you think, given the fact he looked like he wanted to touch the orb of light above the flower - as he moves around gathering the white pieces and passing the black orb for the Undying to safekeep.  
  
You all stand around him, watching curiously. He pulls out the other white pieces you got in the other temple and shuffles them together, until half of them form a single white ball. He examines it for a moment, before throwing it into the flower, which closes up again. The counter now says six hundred twelve sweeps.  
  
“Care to explain?” The Scholar asks after a moment, breaking the awkward silence.  
  
“I would if I could,” the Dreamer shrugs, putting the rest of the white pieces away and motioning for the exit. “But I don’t really know all that much. I can tell you what I know once Spit is not straining himself. Let’s go.”  
  


**‡**

  
The Dreamer, however, gets no chance to explain himself.  
  
Mostly because it takes Spit a ridiculous long time to finish releasing the last of the sand and putting you all down again. And the moment he finally does, the ground shakes unpleasantly and throws him off his feet. You’re kind of really fucking tired of the ground shaking under your feet, to be honest.  
  
“What the fuck now?” The Blacksmith growls, axe already at hand.  
  
“Nothing good,” Spyros mutters after a moment, as the tremors shift and it becomes apparent there’s something under your feet, circling about you. “ _Shit!_ ”  
  
He grabs you and leaps away, snarling, as a giant mouth opens underneath the others. The Undying and the Conductor manage to scramble away in time, but the giant jaws raise up and swallow the rest of your group whole. You stare as what appears to be a giant worm shifts about, shaking the ground as it moves. Removing the sand to view the temple probably attracted it, you think, somewhere underneath the panicked shock coursing through your veins.  
  
“Did---did that just fucking happen?” The Conqueror stutters out, whips hanging limply at his sides.  
  
“Happening,” the Undying snarls violently, glaring at the ground. “In present tense.”  
  
“Leap!” Spyros growls at them, doing so himself and barely avoiding the maw emerging from the sand.  
  
The fucking thing is _fast_. And its hide is thick too. You try to hit it, but your weapons bounce off it harmlessly. Even the Undying’s strength seems to not make much of an impact on the damn thing. You never thought you’d die swallowed up by a giant worm in the middle of buttfucking nowhere. The Conqueror’s scream dies abruptly as he trips and finds himself swallowed. You dig your claws onto Spyros’ shoulder as he and the Undying keep moving, barely managing to lose a limb or two in the process. It corners him after a moment, though, and you shriek in horror as the jaws close around you.  
  
“You owe me a hundred kips.”  
  
You open your eyes to find the others floating - as you are - in Spit’s hold, away from the fleshy walls all around you. The Conductor is smirking at the Orator, who looks rather put out. You stare for a moment, just as a growl starts forming somewhere on Spyros’ gut.  
  
“I thought you were _dead_ , assholes,” you snarl at them, squirming in Spit’s hold, “not running a fucking betting pool!”  
  
“I was betting on the Reckless being enough to handle this thing,” the Orator replies innocently, smiling thinly at you. “I’ve seen him kill larger prey, after all.”  
  
“ **Fuck** you,” Spyros replies, baring all his teeth.  
  
“I’m starting to think the Undying might not be able to handle it, either,” the Scholar muses quietly, staring around her like this is the most fascinating thing in the world.  
  
“Oh, she will,” the Dreamer muses, surprisingly calm.  
  
“Stop squirming,” Spit grunts, “unless you want to stand on fucking acid.”  
  
The Conqueror makes a pitiful sound in the back of his throat and holds himself as still as a statue. You think he might not be breathing.  
  
“This was rather unexpected,” the Nurturer tells no one in particular and everyone summarily ignores him.  
  
You take a moment to appreciate the every surreal bit of your situation. You’ve been eaten by a giant worm. Eaten. By a giant worm. And you’re somehow still alive, which you’re not exactly complaining about. But come _on_. Giant fucking worm. In what universe does that even _happen_.  
  
“Fuck!” The Undying hisses disgruntledly as she joins you, clutching her culling fork with all her might.  
  
“That would be another hundred,” the Conductor drawls, lips twitching into a disdainful smile.  
  
“...well,” the Dreamer deadpans, “there goes that idea. Spit--”  
  
“If you fucking say ‘do your thing’, I swear to all gods, I’m letting this thing digest you, you fucking asshole.”  
  
You wonder, briefly, if you’re the only one even mildly concerned about the fact you were just _eaten_. By a fucking giant _worm_. You really need to end that train of thought before you start hyperventilating.  
  
“Why _aren’t_ you doing your thing?” The Undying demands, giving Spit an accusing look.  
  
“Because I already _am_ ,” Spit snarls back, “I’m holding you up here, _darling_ , so you don’t get digested by the fucking acid everywhere around us. And I just spent half an hour moving several fucking tons of sand. So I’m fucking _tired_ and running on pure adrenaline. That’s fucking why.”  
  
She blinks.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Spit looks like he’s actually considering letting you all fall. You clear your throat before he can say anything else.  
  
“I’m going to assume no one here wants to end the day as worm shit or worse,” you say, ignoring the glares the comment gets you, and then shrug. “So why aren’t we already punching our way out of here?”  
  
“Did you miss the part where everything we did bounced right off its fucking hide?” The Conqueror seems to have finally found his voice, glowering at you.  
  
You roll your eyes.  
  
“Does that,” you point at the wall closest to you, which looks very fleshy despite being a gross shade of green, “look like its hide at all?”  
  


**‡**

  
“I fucking hate worms,” you tell no one in particular, sitting on the sand, back against the thick hide of the particular worm responsible for your new bias against them.  
  
“Join the fucking club,” Spyros grunts, sitting by your side.  
  
“Fuck saving trollkind,” the Dreamer says, head pillowed in the Undying’s lap as she pulls out chunks of worm meat off his hair. “Fuck prophecies and temporal predestination. I should have been the savior of lemmings. Worse comes to worst, at least I can fucking _eat_ them.”  
  
“Fuck you,” the Blacksmith groans, tilting her head back against the chunk of hide, “now I want some fucking lemming soup.”  
  
“What’s a lemming?” The Conqueror asks, sounding almost desperate for a topic of conversation that doesn’t revolve around worms, being eaten by worms, or having to punch one’s way out of a worm.  
  
“I really, really fucking hate worms,” you insist, because it cannot be said enough times.  
  
“Stupid, small and furry little things,” the Scholar answers the Conqueror, ignoring your whining and using her best lecturing tone. “Emphasis on stupid. They’re, or were, at least, very common in the Northern continent. Easy food in the dark seasons.”  
  
“I hate you all,” Spit informs you, resting against the packbeast. He turns against it, patting the coarse fur. “Except you. You’re my only friend. When I kill them all, you and I will go on to have wondrous adventures that have nothing to do with fucking limeblood prophets. We won’t get eaten or roasted in the sun and I’ll even teach you how to swim.”  
  
To be perfectly honest, the fact the thing hasn’t taken off running away from you says a lot. The fact it has survived this long is a miracle in and of itself.  
  
“Shut up, Spit,” you find voice joining the chorus.  
  
He looks up and pushes away from the packbeast, giving you all a bleary look. Then he sighs and goes back to sprawling against the animal’s side. The packbeast makes a tiny noise and goes back to trying to sleep.  
  
“Alston,” he says, and the Dreamer chokes on air. “My name is Alston.”  
  
You have to give it to him, he knows how to shut you up. The silence that falls over is a whole new level of awkward and uncomfortable. That’s saying something considering the things you’ve seen and done in the last decade or so. You turn to look at Spyros, but he looks as uncomfortable as you feel. Another look at the others proves they’re not fairing any better.  
  
“What are you doing?” The Dreamer hisses at him, pulling himself away from the Undying to glare at the other seadweller.  
  
“I was just eaten by a fucking worm,” Spit - Alston? - says with a little shrug. “I’m tired and starving and my head is throbbing like someone hit it with a shovel. I also fully intend to pop the head of the next fucker who mangles my title like a goddamn grape. But since you fucking assholes can’t be bothered and the effort to kill you might actually kill _me_ at this point, you may as well call me by fucking name.”  
  
“Spit--”  
  
“Suck my bulge.”  
  
“Alilah.” Every eye turns to the Undying. She shrugs. “It’s not like anyone else is ever going to use it.”  
  
The Dreamer flinches, for some reason, but Spit cracks up laughing.  
  
“You just _had_ to choose that one,” he says, staring at her through half-lidded eyes. “Didn’t you?”  
  
“Is there something wrong with my name?” She sounds offended.  
  
“Nothing,” Spit says, laughing harder. “It’s just the name of the old goddess of the abyss. Good fucking _job_ , darling.”  
  
The Dreamer looks at the Undying’s darkening expression, at the looks of disbelief and discomfort being passed around, at Spit cackling to his heart content. You could almost tell the moment he starts to give up. You reach out to hold Spyros’ hand in a tight grip. He squeezes back, not taking his eyes off the bickering trio.  
  
“You’re being really fucking inappropriate,” the Dreamer hisses at the violetblood.  
  
That is putting it very mildly. Names are sacred. Intimate. Names are for family and quadrants, and you... you are neither. You might be a pack now, having come together in many ways, but that’s not the same. What will happen when you go back to the city, to your own castes? You watch them a little helplessly. Every time you reach something like status quo, one or the other or all three of them decide to throw it on its head. Spit snorts.  
  
“We were just eaten by a fucking _worm_ , we’re still _alive_ , somehow, and I’m pretty fucking sure you’re never going to feel more like family to me, than you do right now.” He rolls his eyes. “And you fuckers _will_ stop mangling my title, one way or another.”  
  
“I never had a family,” the Nurturer murmurs against the stunned silence left behind Spit’s words. “Not a troll one, anyway.” He’s holding a large seed between index and thumb, studying it carefully. “And the quiet ones don’t use names, anyway. So I suppose you can have my name, since no one else uses it.” He pauses a moment as he puts the seed away. The Dreamer makes a sound not unlike a lemming dying. “Ignatz.”  
  
You feel the moment Spyros loosens his grip on your hand. You don’t facepalm on sheer will alone, because of course--  
  
“Spyros.”  
  
Of course. And now he’s looking at you, lips pulled into a half grin with just a small hint of teeth. You feel an uncharacteristic urge to bite him, so you grind your teeth instead. You’re doing this. No way out. Or well, there is, but taking it won’t stop the status quo from changing. What the fuck ever.  
  
“Phylis,” you say, not even bothering to be discreet in the way you curl up against the purpleblood, offering everyone defensive scowl.  
  
The Dreamer lets out a loud snort, pressing his face into his hands.  
  
“My name is Harlow and I’m going to quit this fucking shitty destiny of mine and go raise lemmings instead.” He drags his fingers down his face and glowers at Spit after a moment. “And before one of you smartass assholes asks, no, I did _not_ dream this one before.”  
  
There’s a ripple of uneasy laughter at that, and you find yourself somewhat relaxing, just a little, as Spyros puts a hand on your back and you sprawl more comfortably against his leg. You can almost feel the cogs realigning in everyone’s brains.  
  
“Linnea,” the Scholar says, without looking up from where her fingers are drawing patterns on the sand. She smiles a little wryly. “...that wasn’t so hard.”  
  
“You’re all fucking crazy,” the Blacksmith declares, before the Dreamer can retort anything, laughing a little herself. You don’t feel inclined to argue with her. “The name’s Zillah, but if my rustbloods ever hear you use it, they’re going to kill you.” She grinned. “And I ain’t gonna stop them.”  
  
The Orator’s own laughter echoes after a moment as she curls up on herself. For once, she sounds young. She never sounds young. She’s always ornery and smug. You wonder if the stress has finally gotten to her. You really hope not. You like her, most of the time, for all she’s ornery and smug, and you are tired and stressed and a bit panicky and having to kill someone because they’ve snapped is really low in the list of things you’d want to happen right now.  
  
“I had to think about it,” she says after a moment. “I genuinely had to think about my own name, because I didn’t remember it off the top of my head.” She laughs again, shaking her head. You think there’s something in her laugh that almost sounds like sadness. You don’t like it. Sadness doesn’t suit her nearly as well as arrogance does. It’s like she’s trying to add another layer of awkward on the already awkward cake. “But I do remember, and I suppose you might as well use it before I do forget it for good. My name is Dhraid.”  
  
“Juuust so we’re all clear, this is queer family bonding time, right, no bizarro quadrant thing going on,” the Conqueror frets, shifting nervously and looking around him like expecting to get hit. For that comment alone, you would hit him if it didn’t involve getting away from Spyros. The kid’s almost bouncing in place. “Because I like you all but. Er. I mean, the name’s Ulyses. With a y.”  
  
“Tyrell,” the Conductor snaps, interrupting the light laughter the Conqueror inspired. He gives you all that dead-eyed glare of his before focusing it on the Dreamer. “Is there another social convention you feel like destroying tonight, _Harlow_?”  
  
The Dreamer snorts.  
  
“Wait until you meet the twelfth, my friend,” he looks more resigned than annoyed, though you suppose you’d be too, if you had to deal with his burden. “You just wait.”  
  
You let your eyes slide half-mast as Spyros’ fingers start drumming along your spine just as you begin to tense again. No point in getting upset about it, right. You’d call it a long time ago, too. Pack or family, the name doesn’t really matter. The point is that the bonds between you all have shifted. Again. You wonder how much more are they going to change, before you return to the city. You wonder what will happen when you do. You don’t think the other goldbloods will take this nicely. Or maybe they will. It’s been a while, and the one true law of the city is that those who don’t adapt get pushed aside. You feel oddly homesick, sitting in the sand with the others, watching the moons slowly moving across the sky.  
  
But you suppose, all things considered, that everything will eventually, probably be okay.  
  
Maybe.  
  


**‡**

  
You’re not sure what you expected your final destination to be, but this certainly wasn’t it. The canyon looks out of place in the middle of the desert. The transition between sand and rock is rather abrupt, but you’re pretty okay with rock. Rock is not nearly as tiresome to walk through as sand. What you’re really not very comfortable with - and considering this journey and the things you’ve learned to be comfortable with, that’s something - is the piles of bones, whitened by the sun. That’s a touch too ominous. The way the others are shifting about, they’re probably thinking something along the same lines. You really, really hope there are no goddamn worms around. You might lose your mind if there are.  
  
You’ve ditched the separate groups and now travel in a single one, chattering and bickering and stepping on each other’s toes just for fun. Boundaries keep shifting, but you’ve honestly stopped trying to pin them down, and you think the others have reached the same point too. You adapt from moment to moment, no longer stopping to consider anything other than the individual you’re dealing with. It’s a little like how you and Spyros treat each other, except you two are always on the same page, and that’s not something you can say about anyone else. Ever. At all. No one except maybe the Nurturer uses names all that much, either. And the trio of deranged morons you call leaders, sometimes, but they mostly keep it to themselves. So it’s not about the names.  
  
It’s about the way the Blacksmith likes to pick on your height and drive you absolutely crazy sometimes. Or the way the Nurturer tells you your horns look like tree branches and you feel the urge to punch him. Or the Dreamer smiles knowingly and you can’t shake the feeling he’s calling you stupid without saying a word. Or the way the Conductor _does_ call you an idiot, to your face, usually while you’re too busy to retort the way you’d want to. Or the way the Orator’s eyes soften just a tad when you do call her by name and you’re not sure how you feel about that. Or the fact the Conqueror feels the need to share his abysmal sense of humor and you’re always left stuck between the urge to strangle him and facepalm, so you laugh instead. Or the way the Scholar tells you a story only to fall asleep right before the best part and it drives you up a wall because you need to know how it ends. Or the way Spit tries to order you around and you do exactly the opposite of what he says, even if it lands you in trouble. Or the way the Undying says something and you find yourself following her words to the letter without realizing it, and then feeling a little dumb when you do realize it, usually hours after the fact.  
  
You know, _fun times._  
  
You ride on Spyros’ shoulder and anchor yourself in his presence, relearning the way to handle the others every night. It’s the only way you have to keep your sanity in check. And yet, oddly enough, despite all those times you’ve felt the urge to tear your hair off in frustration, you feel stupidly at peace with the world at large. It’s okay. You’re okay. It’ll all be okay.  
  
So of course reality needs to reassert itself and remind you that the world sucks. When you reach the end of the canyon, you find a wide, gaping opening. The piles of bones are pretty much a carpet at this point. By now it’s not even creepy, just really fucking annoying, because it makes walking kind of a chore. And then there’s the figure barely visible at the entrance of the cave.  
  
“Stand back!”  
  
The Dreamer snaps at you, raising an arm warningly. It takes a moment to realize that he’s talking to _you_ and not the thing making its way out into the open. You stare at his back, knives still up and ready. You tense when another one crawls out, standing next to the first one. They’re _ugly_ motherfuckers, both of them, whatever the hell they are. They look kind of troll-like, except instead of grey skin they have thick, black armor-like hides. Their faces are somewhat squished, without any real features. Their eyes are bulgy and red, rather than yellow, but they have horns, like a troll. The weird thing is that both have the exact same shape of horns: one just slightly curved and the other with a hooked tip. You’ve never met two trolls who have the _exact_ same horn shape, ever. You think it might actually be kind of impossible, genetically speaking. The thing is, they’re also pretty fucking big, nearly as big as Spyros is, and their posture is awkward, like their bodies are not made to stand up straight.  
  
“What are _the hell_ are those things?” The Blacksmith blurts out before you can, narrowing her eyes as a third one of the things pops its head by the opening of the cave.  
  
“Sentinel drones,” the Dreamer says with a frown. “They shouldn’t attack if we don’t attack them first.”  
  
One of them opens its mouth, full of perfectly aligned, sharp teeth. You really hope that was meant to be a smile. Even if it was, though, you’re still not very willing to put your weapons away, and neither are the others. And then the first one’s eyes glow jade green and it’s body goes both slack and tense at the same time. You don’t know how to describe it, except that it’s weird and creepy and not really making you want to put your knives away.  
  
“Presumptuous like all limebloods,” the... drone thing says, dragging out its vowels. It makes you shiver. “Who says I have not changed from what you assume you know?”  
  
“Because you never change, Great Mother,” the Dreamer shoots back, shrugging with ease. “You never have and you never would, if things had not changed for you. We wish to speak with you, not hurt your children.”  
  
“And what makes you think I wish to listen to what you have to say?”  
  
“Because we are prophets, you and I,” the Dreamer says, tilting his head to the side. “And you’ve known you’ll listen to me for nearly a thousand sweeps, Great Mother.”  
  
“So presumptuous,” the voice rasps out again, “come and see me, then.”  
  
The drone’s eyes go back to red and it’s like a fist released its hold on it, letting it slump back to its awkward stand. It shakes its head, letting out a clicking noise with its teeth, before falling on all fours. The others do the same, retreating into the cave.  
  
“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Spit mutters to himself, as the Dreamer boldly steps forward. “Oh, right, because I’m not the creepy fucking prophet with a thinkpan two sizes too small. Right.”  
  
“Shut up,” the Undying says, offering a half smirk as she grabs him by the elbow and casually drags him along.  
  
“This should be interesting,” the Scholar sighs, as you step into the mouth of the cave.  
  
“Not the word I’d use,” the Conqueror replies, looking between her and the Blacksmith for some kind of moral support.  
  
It’s dark, inside. Unlike the temples, there’s no weird light to guide your steps, so you end up walking very close to each other and advancing slowly. The Orator steps on something slippery and nearly falls, consequently nearly dragging the rest of you down with her. You can hear the clicks and chirps from the drones, as well as the sound of their claws against the stone walls. The cave turns out to be a tunnel, going down and down, twisting and turning. You can’t see a thing, but apparently the Undying can, because she stops you all before you reach a ledge.  
  
“Mind your step,” she says absently, once she’s sure no one’s walking straight into... whatever it was you were walking into.  
  
And then, after a while, there’s silence. Since the Dreamer and the Undying stopped you, that means the rest of you are somewhat crowding each other. At the moment, you can’t really say you mind. Better the others than whatever the fuck is breathing so loud.  
  
“Little trolls,” the voice echoes, much louder than you expected. “The children of the surface, what do you think you’re doing here?”  
  
The jade glow is distracting only until you realize what you’re staring at. The creature’s head emerges from the depths of the pit - which the light helps you see, fuck, that’s _deep_ \- easily the size of a normal hive. The horns are proportionately huge, the same size as the head, if not longer, with the exact same shape as the drones’. Following the head, however, is not a troll’s body, or anything like it, but a bloated abdomen with comparatively tiny legs. Huge, translucent wings complete the look, though you’re pretty sure it’s not them that are keeping the monstrous thing airborne.  
  
When it smiles, you decide you’ve changed your mind, you’ll take the fucking giant worms any time.  
  
“You know why I am here, Great Mother,” the Dreamer braves on, ignoring the fact that mouth could eat him without a problem.  
  
“I _know_ what you’re doing, little limeblood, I asked what you _think_ you’re doing.”  
  
Oh god. It’s a giant riddling moth with troll horns and a maw the size of a large purpleblood. You shouldn’t have complained so much about the worm thing, you think. The worm looks like the better part of the deal right now. You killed the worm, after all. Sure, it was sticky and gross and took forever and a half to get it done, but you _killed_ the worm. You have the sinking feeling this one you’re not supposed to kill.  
  
“Does it matter?” The Dreamer asks, and you genuinely admire him for not wilting under the freaky, glowing glare.  
  
“Not really,” the creature moves its legs in what you think it’s meant to be a shrug. “But I could use the laugh in a few hundred sweeps. You’ll play your part, little troll, and I might or might not play mine, but the truth is that it doesn’t really matter, in the great scale of things.”  
  
“It matters to me, it matters to my people,” the Dreamer snaps, raising his voice enough it makes you flinch. “If I call Him, he’ll come.”  
  
You can hear the clicking and chirping again. You tense as you realize more and more of those drones are coming into the room you’re in. They’re on the walls and the ceiling, shifting around, eyes fixed on you all. You wish the Dreamer would stop irritating the giant mutant moth.  
  
“The call is a bargain itself, little trolls, you don’t know what you’re dealing with. Go home, die among your own. It is preferable than dealing with Him.”  
  
You turn your eyes on the Great Mother, instead of looking at the walls literally crawling with drones. There are so many things you don’t know, and even more that you might never know. You don’t dare speak up, hardly breathing. You’ve come this far, but the you don’t feel like you have any right to interfere.  
  
“You’re afraid of him,” the Undying says, before the Dreamer can even open his mouth to retort. It’s quiet statement, powerful because it’s not accusatory in the least. Just a fact. “Aren’t you?”  
  
“And you’re not? Shouldn’t you be afraid of that which is greater than yourself?” The Great Mother snarls, leaning unpleasantly close to where you’re standing. Something, however, makes it float back, away from you. It looks... pained. “Ah, no, _you_ would not know fear. Hail your Mother, child of the Singer. Would you too ask me to join you, like the little limeblood does?”  
  
“No,” the Undying smiles, tilting her chin up and ignoring the weight of so many gazes on her. “I would _order_ you to.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things!
> 
> 1\. I made a tumblr for this thing, because I have a lot of notes and stuff that ended up getting edited out or glossed over since I'm restricted by the narrator's POV in the story proper. You can find it **[here](http://that-stupid-fic.tumblr.com/)**. There's also a few images relating to this chapter, particularly the detail about the lotus time capsules.
> 
> 2\. I'm going on hiatus for RL reasons, so the next chapter will take about a month to come out. The good news is that it might end up being as long this one since... yay, time to make a pact with the Powers-That-Be!
> 
> 3\. This chapter alone is more than twice as long than the other five combined. I will now go die in a corner.


	7. Bronze ℧ Innocent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Guardian and the Pact.

** Bronze ℧ Innocent **

“In the beginning, there were two of us.” 

You walk in the darkness, next to the Great Mother. You like her, there’s something in her that echoes like the voices of the quiet ones, the same impassive greatness that so many easily mistake for indifference. The others don’t like her, though, much like they don’t like you. It’s okay, you think, because liking or disliking something doesn’t change the nature of the thing. You were taught this, since you were hatched. Your own kin tried to show you their ways, but they have always seemed so petty, in comparison to the wisdom of the quiet ones. You are a troll, but you don’t think like one. You care nothing for the struggles and the worries of others of your kind, instead listening to the whispers in the back of your mind, the song of the quiet ones. You follow Harlow and act as he wants you to, because the prophecies curl around him, humming the same tone as the quiet ones. You bow to Alilah because the song is with her, curled somewhere under her skin. You don’t really care much for the others and their wants and likes and hatreds and despairs. They are trolls, insignificant in the great scale of things. 

The Great Mother, however, is not. 

She is a creature of life and time and knowledge that has listened to the song and knows the value of the song. So you like her and listen to her, and walk alongside her and her children. The others prefer to travel above, in the surface, afraid of the drones and the darkness, certain that they would attack them like they expect them to attack you. It won’t happen, you know. The Great Mother gave her word, bowed her head to Alilah and the song. The Great Mother understands things the others are too young and too small to comprehend. You are young and small as well, but you listen to the ageless voices of your elders, obey the quiet ones and their wisdom. You don’t understand, but you understand that you don’t understand. That makes all the difference, you think. 

“In the beginning was the Voice,” you say, looking up at her. 

There’s a moment of silence as the Great Mother turns to meet your gaze. You relish in her laughter, smiling as she shakes her giant head. 

“Remiss of me, little brownblood,” she says, clearly amused as she continues walking forward, glowing a pale green as she pretends it’s her legs that actually allow her body to move. “In the beginning, there was only the Voice and the Guardian.” That, you had not known. You don’t know many things, so you keep quiet and _listen_. “The Voice gave life, and the Guardian gave order. And then, there were the first of us. Two creatures much like us and nothing at all like us. They were to follow the Voice’s blessing, and multiply, make more of themselves and spread as far as they could go. 

“But they were separated before they could come together, thrown so far away from each other they could not be reunited. They searched for each other, tried to cross the distances between them, but they were to never meet again. Alone, they wept and mourned realizing this way they would be the first only to be the last. Embittered by their loneliness, they decided to find a way to make more of themselves, even if they were supposed to have the other to do so. 

“The First Father took a sharp rock and cut himself open so he could lay his own seed in himself. He could only father one child at the time, but his seed was fertile and held the possibility of endless lives, so every child was unique. Ten of his children survived before he died, and not knowing anything else, they did as he had done, fathering their own people. But soon enough, the fights broke out and rather than kill each other, the siblings took their own children and walked away from each other, to find land they could call their own. Those were your forefathers, little troll, and the forefathers of all trolls in the world, though it would be long before they called themselves such. You all share one root, one single point where all your bloodlines meet. It’s said that when the First Father died, he became the container of his children’s thoughts, uniting them even as they went their own separate ways.” 

“And the other?” You ask, soaking in the words, curiosity demanding to be sated. 

You are a curious creature, acutely aware of all you do not know. This is why you alone chose to escort the Great Mother in your travels, why you were willing to join her in the dark. She knows many things you do not, and she’s promised to answer your questions, provided you ask the right ones. You are not afraid of her. You think only Alilah and Harlow share your fearlessness, but for entirely different reasons. Harlow knows he needs not fear her, safe as he is in the cradle of prophecy. Alilah simply knows no fear, of anything or anyone. You, on the other hand, know fear quite well. You know panic that seizes your muscles and makes breathing impossible. You know terror and the cold claw raking through your pan until you can’t do anything but wait to die, but you trust the quiet ones to let you know when you should fight it and when you should give yourself to it. The Great Mother is not to be feared, but respected. Loved. It really is that simple, for you. 

“The other went underground, little brownblood,” the Great Mother says, voice full of wistfulness. “She was alone and bloated with life she could not birth on her own. So she crawled into the earth, deep until the light and heat of the sun couldn’t reach her anymore, and wove herself a cocoon. If the First Father had seed full of possibility, the First Mother had the ability to birth all life. Understand, they were two sides of the same whole, always meant to be united. But the First Mother emerged from her cocoon a different being, one with a single purpose: to birth all the life boiling in her gut. She laid eggs, hundreds, thousands of them, but without the seed from the First Father, the eggs all hatched identical beings that were little more than drones for the First Mother to control. She tried again, however, because there was still life in her that needed to be hatched. She tried to change them, make them something different. But even her newest children were still lacking souls of their own, for all their shapes changed. Still, she kept on birthing them, as many as she could, for as long as she lived.” 

You listen more than you speak, because in listening is learning all those things you don’t know, might never know otherwise. You’re very good at listening to stories. You have a feeling there is more to this story than what has been said yet, so you tilt your head back and stare at the Great Mother, expectant. You know nothing at all, which is why you’re always so eager to learn more. 

“Why?” 

You look around you, studying the rough shapes barely illuminated by the jade glow. The various drones march on all around you, steps falling in perfect sync to produce an almost drum-like sound. Somewhere far ahead, in the darkness, you can hear their claws and fists breaking rock and opening up the tunnel. They move with mindless enthusiasm, focused solely on their task. You wonder what it’s like, inside their minds. You wonder if they even have minds at all. 

“Because that was the only thing she could do, little brownblood. Look after her children and hope that one day things would change.” 

You smile, eyes bright. This is why your ignorance is not something you curse at or reject. Ignorance means there will always be a place for understanding. And there’s nothing you like more than the pleasant warmth of figuring out something you didn’t know. 

“And now they have.” 

Gleeful, you walk on, delighted in the Great Mother’s laugh. 

** ℧ **

The drones carved you a tunnel to the surface so you could meet the others and confirm the Great Mother is still keeping up with them. They looked disgruntled and generally upset, since apparently food is somewhat scarce with the added strain of keeping the Great Mother and her drones properly fed. You don’t stick around for long, though, after Harlow gives you a short message to deliver. You like it here, underground. It’s quiet and peaceful and so close to the roots of the quiet ones, making their voices louder than usual. You pass the various drones standing guard in the thinner areas of the tunnel before reaching the main chamber they’re working on. It looks like the Great Mother will be taking permanent residence here, a couple days travel from the city. You study the designs they’re decorating the walls with, including many variations of what you assume to be her sign. She’s not a troll, per se, but that’s the closest thing you can associate to it. You’ll ask her about it later, you decide. 

When you reach her, she is resting against a wall, with what appears to be a troll lying against her large body, cradled between her many legs. It has grey skin and short, light grey hair, as well as the horns all the Great Mother’s children share. They’re white, though, rather than the orange-red color of normal trolls. It looks almost like a ghost, like the ones in the tales some of the other brownbloods told you when you were younger. 

“I have returned,” you announce unnecessarily, folding your hands into the sleeves of your robe, smiling up at her. 

“So I see, little brownblood, what does our prophet say?” She asks, absently petting the troll with the tip of one of her legs. 

The creature yawns, mouth full of fang-like teeth that remind you of Alston or Alilah. It blinks at you, giving you a curious look with red eyes and green pupils. The effect is eerie, somewhat. It looks so much like a troll, and yet not. 

“He worries about food supplies for your children,” you say, shrugging and keeping your eyes on the curious creature in her grasp. “He also wants to know if you plan to join us in the city.” 

“I see. He needs not worry about my children; they know well how to provide for themselves.” Her eyes and her body glow jade green as the monochrome creature is raised from her grasp and then carefully deposited on the floor before you. Its eyes are glowing, and it is its voice that continues talking. “As for the rest, tell him I will be joining the rest of you on the surface soon enough.” 

You cock your head to the side, studying the features of the not-quite-troll before you. It looks graceful and delicate, and it’s almost as tall as you are. After a moment of thought, you carefully remove your cloak and wrap it around her shoulders. Her skin is colder than yours, probably because of its jade blood. It stares at you, unresponsive as you adjust the fabric around its body. 

“Do you need anything else?” You ask, looking between the creature and the Great Mother. 

“Perhaps some clothes for my vessel,” she answers with a short laugh. “I would not want to upset your people, after all.” 

“Of course,” and then, because you can’t help yourself: “Won’t it be tiresome? To control her all the time?” 

“She was hatched for this, little brownblood,” the Great Mother replies, both with her own voice and the voice of her vessel drone. “It will be alright.” 

You nod, and privately think the drone has a rather charming smile. You can’t wait to see what the others will make of it. It’ll be rather entertaining, you think. 

** ℧ **

Alston is angry. 

“...please someone tell me that asshole actually has a moirail. Oh fuck.” 

You’re not entirely sure why, except it has something to do with the seadwellers and something they told him. Or they did. You’re not sure, you were busy explaining the general distribution of the city to the Great Mother, to pay attention to what the others were doing. Harlow is just as angry about it, you think, but Harlow has nowhere near the destructive capability the seadweller does, so his rage looks rather puny in comparison. The vast majority of the city just stands there, staring, as the sea pulses bright violet. You idly wonder if Alston will fulfill his multiple threats to cull everyone. He certainly stands a good challenge of doing so, provided he doesn’t tire out first. 

“Does this happen often?” The Great Mother asks, tilting her head to the side and huddling in the clothes you procured for her. 

“More or less,” you reply, mentally considering commissioning a nicer set once things here sort themselves out. “Usually with far less violet light, though. Trolls are delightfully violent creatures, milady. We enjoy tearing each other apart.” 

The drone the Great Mother has hatched to interact more closely with the others looks very much like a troll. It is also capable of expressions that are both familiar and readable because of that. You blink a little as her lips thin and the muscles of her face tense in an unpleasant expression. 

“You would be like that, after all,” she mutters after a moment, shaking her head. “What is the child of the Singer doing?” 

You turn your attention back to the beach, to stare as Alilah summarily stomps into the ocean, culling fork in one hand. You blink as she disappears under the surf. That’s one thing you’ve always wondered, what’s it like, living underwater. You file away the question to ask later, if either of the seadwellers is still alive by then. In the meantime, you let out a soft snort as random trolls fly out of the water, only to smash down again, shrieking before their necks break. Alston must be quite angrier than expected, then. He’s never actually gone around killing trolls before. 

“Something supremely stupid, I would imagine.” 

Supremely stupid, indeed, considering the arcs of violet energy rising from the ocean, and the violent twist of water turning into a maelstrom, white foam everywhere. But eventually, the light dies out and the sea calms down again. There are floating bodies scattered around the surface, violet blood tainting the blue of the sea, as Alilah and Alston eventually walk out of the waves. He looks sullen and chastised, while she is amused arrogance incarnated. But their fingers are loosely entwined, as he follows her with a resigned, bitter twist in his walk. You snicker at the sight of them, the small details that reek pale between them, and shrug when the Great Mother gives you a pointed look. 

“Is this how you solve your problems?” She asks, somewhere between amused and sad. 

“To our defense,” you say, ignoring Harlow’s speech and the cheering crowd, “it usually works out just fine.” 

You marvel quietly at Harlow’s skill to turn anything into a politically successful gesture. He plays the crowd, subtly nudging them in the right direction as he speaks. The others fall in line behind him, thoughtlessly. Trustingly. It’s so strange for a troll to trust another, especially one from another caste. And yet Harlow manages to pull the strings of trolls’ fears and desires to make them dance his tune. You’re no good with words, yourself, beyond asking questions that dig deeper into the truth. But no one likes the truth, no one consents to do things the straightforward way. Harlow fascinates you, in his ability to bend both trolls and truth to his needs. 

“Well,” the Great Mother muses, tone a tad dry, “you _did_ survive this long.” 

** ℧ **

The Great Mother gathers stares no matter where she goes. She’s pale and colorless in a way most trolls find upsetting, given how much emphasis is put on bloodcaste and remaining distinct in the orderly mess that is the city. But all she wears is white and jade, and neither of those are blood colors, as far as the rest of them is concerned. You leave her to her own devices after the first day, when she starts showing more interest in talking with other trolls and pestering the rest of the Council about their travels, their policies and their personalities. She comes back to you eventually, to tell you stories or answer questions you’ve thought up in her absence, and that’s perfectly alright with you. In general, you don’t like crowds of trolls, and you much prefer to tend to the quiet ones and, you suppose, make sure your brownbloods don’t do anything stupid. 

You sit on the grass in one of the small gardens you’ve grown inside the city, palming the leaves and sinking your claws into the earth, as if to dig out the whispers. You tilt your head back and know your eyes are probably glowing bronze as you stretch your consciousness into every vine and root and leaf. They’re all connected, in the end, they all share their secrets and tell you their stories. You drink in the memories of trolls passing by or stepping on them, the ghosts of their voices as they cry or laugh or scream. You take a deep breath and the memory of a thousand different scents licks the inside of your skull, tickling the underside of your nose. You travel from one node to the next, peering at the echoes, dissecting meaning out of everything. This is the world you’ve always known, the _real_ world. The world that begins where your own perceptions end. The world where trolls are what they are, when they think no one’s watching. You know what they want no one to know, their very best and their very worst. Few bother to hold up pretenses when there’s no one to fool. The lies are meaningless when there’s no one to be deceived. And among those moments, you stand in silence, eyes and ears and soft smile. 

The Conductor claims to platonically hate all trolls equally, but you don’t understand why he would. Trolls are delightful creatures, complicated and deceitful. They don’t do anything straightforward, they never admit ignorance or curiosity or anything that isn’t guarded or threatening or both. You watch them, through your eyes and the eyes of the quiet ones, and wonder if your curiosity will ever be sated. If you’ll ever know all there is to know about them. You think you might die before that happens, but that’s alright with you. That means you’ll never be bored in your life. 

You smile as you slowly build up a record of what happened while you were gone, every detail, every minute thing. You see the great storms coming because you can always catch them as they begin brewing. Sometimes you tell Harlow about it, and he flails about trying to extinguish a fire not yet fully formed. Sometimes you keep quiet and entertain yourself watching the fighting and the screaming as they scramble to fix what has always been broken. 

You learn of three separate attacks on the city, of the squabbles as defenses were prepared and the riot-like celebrations once they realized they could defend themselves without their precious Council at the helm. You listen to whispers of unease and disdain and arrogance, and you catalogue every potential traitor in your midst. You hear about the unrest following such a long absence and the sincere relief to have you back. Trolls are silly, that way. Most of the city hates the Council, for one reason or another, but the Council has proven time and time to be frightfully efficient at what they - you - set out to do. There are flaws and complaints, but they would much rather keep themselves in your service than risk a new leadership that doesn’t uphold such a high success rate. 

After all, Harlow is a limeblood and a prophet; for better or for worse, his word is law. 

You go through thousands of mentions of his title and his office and his blood, and you wonder if he knows the true extent of his power. If he knows that he needs only command it, for half the city to throw themselves off a cliff, wide smiles on all their faces. You rather think he doesn’t, because your prophet is too engrossed in his prophecy to notice many things. Or anything at all, outside the realm of his dreams. He doesn’t care for trolls themselves, outside perhaps a few of his bloodcaste and the other members of the Council. He doesn’t see trolls, he sees pawns in the eternal game of predestination and paradox. He doesn’t see the lives he holds in his hands, the hopes and the dreams entrusted to his clumsy care. He sees only the goal, but not the path paved in blood to reach it. You are an ignorant fool and you fully admit to it. But Harlow might actually be a worse offender than you, because he knows even less and refuses to realize it. 

The rest of the Council is much the same, bitter in that unspoken way of theirs. They hate the world that changed without warning them, that hates them back twice as hard. They miss their own lands and their old hatreds, but though they secretly cradle the hope of reclaiming what they lost, they seem resigned to the fact that it’s gone. Sweeps have gone by, eroding the memories of a life different than the one they now have. Slowly and steadily, night after night grinds down on their pride and their identity, turning them into something else that is quite unlike anything they ever dreamed of being. They focus on survival and don’t allow themselves to give into the rage. Rage and fear and bitterness will not help them survive. Nothing but moving forward and adapting will. They don’t really question much anymore, neither the Council nor the trolls serving them. They follow Harlow and his pet seadwellers because that’s how it works. They might remember the times before the Great Catastrophe and their lives before they were driven to this lifestyle, but this lifestyle isn’t so bad, they think. This life is not kind, but it’s not cruel either. This life is hard and demanding, sustained only by hope and prophecies that no one knows the true depth of. But it is the life that keeps them going, and they have grown too used to it to trade it easily anymore. 

You sit in your garden, feeling the grass pulse under your palms, and open yourself wholly to the voices of the quiet ones. It’s not something the others would understand, you think, your willingness to spread yourself wide and invite in something far greater than yourself. You remember the Great Mother asking Alilah that, and you wonder how you would answer that question. You’re not afraid, because you don’t have reserves against the quiet ones. You spread yourself open without reservation, letting them see and touch and know every bit and corner of your mind. And you feel no fear of them, because the truth is that you are part of them, as much as they’re part of you. You are two sides of the same whole, and no one can take that away from you. 

The Guardian is coming. 

You breathe, and feel the pulse of the world becoming one with you. 

** ℧ **

The city shifts restlessly as preparations are made for the ceremony. There is speculation running rampant and confusion and fear and many things you don’t quite understand, because it is not in your nature to do so. You know what must be done, but you never knew the life before the meteors. You never had any attachments to the world the others are so nostalgic about. But you understand change, you understand the weight of change and the weight of desperation fueling it. You understand, a little bit, the pressure to become something else entirely, for the sake of survival. More than that, you understand the lull of the unknown. 

You busy yourself around, casually putting some of your brownbloods to the task of watching the more dangerous elements in your midst, without really telling them so. The thing you like best about the brownbloods is that they do as you tell them too, without having waste precious time explaining everything to them. They fear and worship you like a living incarnation of the nature spirits they worship in private and which used to be the foundation of the brownblood nation. You know the stories of the day you were hatched and how the display of love from the quiet ones saved not only you, but many others. Because you were hatched the night of the Great Catastrophe, you don’t know who your parents were, you have no family and no bloodline to ascribe yourself to. You knew your own sign, like all other trolls know theirs, but it matched none any other brownblood knew or had seen before. You are a revered outsider to all things, in all ways, but you don’t let that bother you. Most of the time, you hardly stop to think about it, or the implications of it, when you have so much to learn and so many questions to ask. 

As the day of the summoning approaches, you find yourself studying the proceedings and quietly correcting small mistakes the rest of the Council makes. It’s funny, you think, how they don’t think much about you and yet how they consistently rely on you. They don’t like you, because they don’t understand a single thing about you, but they also know they can count on you without question. They don’t usually ask for your input in many things, assuming – correctly – that you don’t particularly care about it, but at the same time, they listen if you speak up, assuming – incorrectly – that given how little you speak out loud, everything you do say is inherently significant. Mostly you just run errands and pass along messages and find people without making much of a fuss about it. You’re a facilitator by nature, and it is no weight on your shoulders to help around. 

And when all that is done, you invariably find yourself in the company of Ulyses, listening to him fret and worry and panic about the smallest things. 

“This is the right thing to do, right?” He tells you, falling into step with you and absently worrying the sleeves of his shirt with his claws. 

You look down at him, blinking slowly. He looks up and offers an embarrassed smile in reply. 

“Summoning the Guardian,” he goes on, breaking eye-contact because the height difference upsets him most of time. He’s tiny for a troll of his caste, you’ve been lead to believe, though you don’t really understand why size matters at all. Phyllis is the smallest troll in the Council, and she also happens to be just as deadly as her moirail. Ulyses himself is quite a skilled fighter by his own right, too, but he cares a lot about appearances. “I mean, that’s the right thing to do, right?” 

“It has always been our goal,” you muse placidly, wondering what could the blueblood be thinking now. “Even if we did not know it, it is Harlow’s mission, and by extension, our own.” 

“Well, yes,” Ulyses bites the inside of his lip, frowning as you both stand back to let a group of greenbloods carrying construction supplies cross the street before you. Usually, they would have stopped and let you pass, often bowing and looking at the floor. But since neither of you is wearing the unofficial clothes that mark you as members of the Council, you mix into the crowds of the city with remarkable ease. You don’t usually bother to wear the heavy cloak, unless Harlow explicitly tells you to, as your brownbloods would recognize you everywhere and you don’t particularly care to boss around anyone from another caste. For his part, Ulyses has taken to not wear it when he comes out walking with you, as, you think, an attempt to not disrupt you. You are amused by his gesture, enough to not say anything about it. “But what if we screw up? I mean, we’re not talking small here. We’re talking the big boys, the Powers That Be. The sort of thing that could easily destroy us all without a second thought. You’re not gonna tell me you’re not even a little bit nervous about it.” 

“I don’t have to be,” you muse, watching the greenblood group disappearing around a corner, and the flow of trolls walking along the street returning to normal. They remind you of ants, sometimes: small, insignificant, and altogether too worried about whatever they’re thinking about, to think about the bigger picture. “Since whether I am nervous or not does not change the fact we will summon him anyway. My nervousness does not change whatever might happen once we do. He might retaliate and destroy us all, just as easily as he might comply to our pleas. The decision, I’m afraid, is entirely out of our hands.” 

Ulyses remains silent for a long moment, staring at his feet as he walks. Then he shudders violently. 

“You know, Iggy,” he begins, and your lips twitch somewhat at the distortion to your name. Your brownbloods would start a holy war about it, out of sheer outrage. “You kind of really suck at this comforting thing.” 

“I know,” you reply, shrugging. 

“No, really, you don’t,” he presses on, blue eyes giving you a pointed look. “I know not knowing is kind of your thing, so when you say you know you usually mean you _know_ , but right now, you _really_ don’t know how much you _don’t_ know all there is to know about this.” You feel your lips twitch somewhat, as Ulyses frowns, puzzled. “…I had a point with this, I swear, and now I think I lost it.” 

Your laughter is cut short by the familiar sound of chain links clinking in time with sure footed steps. You turn around in time to see Dhraid round another corner and stalk purposely towards you. You admire the way the tealblood makes everything around her stop and stare when she enters a room or a street. Trolls take a moment from whatever they are doing to look up and follow her with their eyes, eager to obey orders, without knowing they are eager at all. It is not only because her horns and their chains call attention no matter where she goes, even though they do. There is something in the very way she moves, that lets anyone even halfway paying attention know that she is not someone to be ignored. You’ve never quite understood how it works, though it fascinates you. 

“Conqueror, Nurturer,” she greets you both, with a subtle tilt of her chin, and you can tell the precise moment Ulyses and you enter the awareness of other trolls. 

The effect is immediate. Like a ripple, there are murmurs and stares and a sense of distance that was not there before. When you were walking down the street, minutes ago, you had been part of the crowd. Trolls sidestepped you and passed you by without a second glance. You were just another pair of horns no one cared to pay attention to. They might have even bumped into you, and snarled at you for it, before hurrying along with their own business to take care of. Now, you know, they will skirt away from you, giving you ample space. They are hyperaware of your presence, and though less than a minute later the movement starts again in the street, you know they might as well be staring for all they’re walking away. Now you are not just another pair of horns, but three members of the Council discussing matters of the greatest importance, things lesser trolls have no business knowing about. 

It amuses you greatly, how trolls go out of their way to build walls where there were none in the first place. 

“Has any of you seen the Dreamer or the Undying?” Dhraid asks you, arms folded delicately in front of her. The posture would be demureness incarnated, if not for the fact she has a fan in one hand, and anyone who has ever seen her use one of those can recognize the implicit threat. “Spit is… having a _moment_.” 

Ulyses snickers before he can help himself, biting the inside of his lip to keep from laughing outright. Alston has… moments three times a night. Most of them end in an explosion of psionics, violet light and profuse swearing. You think out of the entire Council, he is the one who is the most shaken about the whole affair. The seadweller is testy and irritable most of the time, usually inflicting his abysmal sense of humor on everyone around him as an attempt to share his misery, but ever since you’ve returned from your quest to fetch the Great Mother, he has been utterly insufferable. From what you’ve gathered, the seadwellers under his command attempted to overthrow him. You think of Alston, glowing like a violet star, raising mountains’ worth of sand with delicate precision, and find the notion that a group of seadwellers will somehow defeat him to be quite laughable. He’s too strong for them to handle, usually too powerful for anyone but Alilah to stand up to him on even ground. You don’t understand why trolls would be foolish enough to challenge someone who so easily dwarfs them, but then, you don’t understand politics most of the time. You do know Alston spends most of his time on dry land, tormenting people in the city and driving both Harlow and Alilah up walls with his antics. 

“Not really,” Ulyses answers with a shrug which might be really a disguised shudder. He’s afraid of Alston, you know, threatened by the idea of the seadweller becoming a foe one day. 

“Allow me,” you say instead, offering an easy smile and walking over to a tree nearby. 

You can hear them walking after you, waiting. Ulyses is always curious about your powers and your connection to the quiet ones, but he doesn’t understand that you do not control them as much as you serve them. Dhraid watches you with the guarded reserve of someone who is not entirely convinced she is not being threatened. You smile a little as you press a palm into the rough bark and tilt your head back as your eyes glow bronze. You slide down the roots and into the cradle of the quiet ones, inquiring after the prophet and his pet seadweller. The murmurs guide you along roots and branches and flowers, until you find your mind nestled in the tip of a leaf of a tree overlooking the cliffs of the beach behind the house of the Ten. On the sand, Harlow stands as Alilah walks out of the surf. You strain yourself to listen, nudging the branch you’re in to grow and drop down towards them. 

“My lady,” Harlow is saying, offering an arm to Alilah. 

He sounds content, almost playful. It’s not a tone you’re very used to hearing from him, given how much he stresses and frets about everything else. You watch the smile she gives him, though, hair wet and clinging to her fins and the back of her neck. And then she arches an eyebrow at him, challenging, refusing to take the offered arm. Harlow rolls his eyes. 

“This is the part you say ‘My lord’, and we go on for a walk along the shore,” he informs her helpfully, somewhat hopelessly amused. 

“No,” Alilah replies, curling her arm around his and tilting her chin up with pride that knows no bounds, “I _have_ no lord, Harlow.” 

You watch him laugh at that, shifting his arm until they are holding hands instead, fingers entwined. He’s a little smaller than her, easily dwarfed if not by her height, by her horns alone. And still, you can’t help but notice the way she leans on him, shoulders bumping as they walk away. You are too far away to see the details, but you are pretty sure they are smiling. 

You fold yourself away from the tree, crossing the distance back to where your body is. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the pulse of life beating underneath the bark of the tree. Dhraid and Ulyses are behind you, clearly waiting for you to tell them what you saw. You can’t stop thinking about the image of the two walking hand in hand. You look at your audience with a small shrug. 

“I’m afraid they are out of my reach,” you say, which is true enough. 

“Ah, I’ll be off, then,” Dhraid nods, though she spares a moment to sigh. She turns to leave, before pausing a moment and giving you a thoughtful look. “Thank you, Nurturer.” 

You offer her a guileless smile. 

“My pleasure, Dhraid.” 

For a moment, her eyes soften somewhat, before she snaps out of it and nods sharply once more, stalking away in a swirl of expensive fabric. Ulyses is frowning at you. He might not understand you at all, but he knows you surprisingly well. Perhaps, he knows you best out of all the trolls in the world, because he is the only one that has ever bothered to spend time with you. He blinks, opening his mouth to speak. 

“I’m hungry,” you interrupt him, voice as placid and absent as usual. “Shall we go visit the market?” 

Ulyses closes his mouth, twisting it into an unconvinced line. But he nods anyway, and even pays for the meal without thinking about it. In the back of your mind, you can already hear the wheels turning as the world prepares itself for what’s coming its way. 

** ℧ **

The city has a main square. It is a vast, open area that gets turned into a sprawling market every three days. It is large enough to fit every troll in the city and a good chunk of the seadweller population from the _other_ city, and still leave enough space at the center that the complex design in the center can be appreciated. The wheel with the signs of the Council, now completed with Alilah’s and the Great Mother’s, is often ignored. Trolls are used to seeing the signs everywhere as they go through their daily grind. But today the square is free of stalls and bickering trolls trying to scam each other. Today, every soul under your command stands there, crowded and expectant and more than a little terrified. At the center of the square, the Council stands, dress formally at Alston’s insistence that this needed to be done right. You are not entirely sure what he meant, or that anyone else understood, for that matter. The air is heavy with the quiet weight of expectancy and fear of the unknown. 

“Fifty sweeps ago, precisely,” Harlow begins, booming his voice so that it will reach every corner of the square, though you think the acoustics of the buildings nearby were designed to help. “The world as we knew it came to a violent, abrupt end.” 

There is chorus of murmurs and hushed words, and you realize with a jolt that he is right. Today is your wriggling day. The Council stands in a circle, facing outwards. In front of you, your people gather, watching eagerly. You notice, however, that divisions aren’t clear cut. Some of the castes are mixed together, but their attention is nonetheless unflinching. 

“Fifty sweeps ago, the Great Catastrophe changed the face of the world and pushed us to near extinction,” Harlow goes on, voice rising above the murmurs. “Fifty sweeps ago, we decided we would not go quietly into oblivion. Fifty sweeps ago, we rose above despair and proved our time on this world was not over. Fifty sweeps ago, we joined hands with our enemies and buried old hatreds to foster new beginnings. Fifty years ago, we chose to survive!” 

Someone – a rustblood, probably – roars in agreement, and soon enough countless voices join into a screaming cacophony of agreement. You don’t look to the side, or change your posture in the slightest. This is a show, and you have been told exactly what part you must play in it. This could have been done privately just as easily, but Harlow insists it must be public instead. He says this will further unify the trolls under your command, and ensure the city does not collapse after it is all said and done. You don’t know many things, but you have to admit Harlow knows how to put on a great show. 

“We are trolls!” He snarls at the crowd, and it snarls back at him, euphoric. “We fight and we cull and we hunt and we built and we fucking survive!” The crowd roars in agreement, drunk in excitement and anticipation. “They took away our children and our future. I tell you, tonight we take them back!” 

Silence falls again, as a limeblood steps into your circle, Harlow’s mother. She looks radiant, clad in the cloth of her office as a prophetess, lime green and slate grey. In her hands, she carries two half spheres of solid white, the treasures you unearthed from the temples on your latest quest. She walks with an unhurried grace, hair trailing quietly after her as every eye in the square fixes on her with something like apprehension. The Council turns their back on the crowd, and you watch attentively as the limeblood approaches Zillah. 

“Do you consent?” She asks the taller woman, offering her cupped hands to her. 

Without being told, trolls quiet down until only the chorus of their uneasy breathing can be heard. Zillah pulls a knife out of her sleeve, identical to the one currently resting in yours. 

“The Blacksmith stands for blood and caste,” she says, slicing open her palm and bleeding over the limeblood’s hands and the white artifact in them. “The rustbloods consent.” 

The limeblood walks over to you, slow enough to give the ceremony the gravity it deserves, but not enough to make it seem like she’s hesitating. 

“Do you consent?” 

“The Nurturer stands for blood and caste,” you say, ignoring the flash of pain as you slice your palm open, raising your voice above your usual murmur. “The brownbloods consent.” 

She moves on after you pull your hand away, not looking back. 

“The Architect stands for blood and caste. The goldbloods consent.” 

One by one, she asks the same question. 

“Do you consent?” 

One by one, they answer her. 

“The Dreamer stands for blood and caste. The limebloods consent.” 

She doesn’t linger by her son, almost in a trance. 

“The Conductor stands for blood and caste. The greenbloods consent.” 

She doesn’t flinch under the scrutiny of the monochrome drone. 

“The Great Mother stands for blood and caste. The jadebloods consent.” 

One by one, she offers her hands to be bled on. 

“The Orator stands for blood and caste. The tealbloods consent.” 

Her voice remains a constant pitch, solemn. 

“The Conqueror stands for blood and caste. The bluebloods consent.” 

She doesn’t care her sleeves are drenched by now, splattered on a rainbow of blood. 

“The Scholar stands for blood and caste. The indigobloods consent.” 

Her hands don’t shake, and her grip on the artifact remains firm even as it grows slick. 

“The Reckless stands for blood and caste. The purplebloods consent.” 

She doesn’t wilt under anticipation, even as you can tell a few trolls have stopped breathing. 

“The Spiteful stands for blood and caste. The violetbloods consent.” 

Only when she closes the circle, does her expression betray a soft, fleeting smile. 

“The Undying stands for blood and caste. The fuchsiabloods consent.” 

The limeblood walks back to the center of your circle, blood dripping down her fingers and her sleeves. She closes her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. You are certain you could hear a pin hit the ground, in the silence bearing down the square. 

“Twelve stand here tonight,” she says, raising her voice with the same ease Harlow does. Natural, you think absently, that she would have taught him how. “Twelve stand for blood and caste. Twelve consent to call Him from the edges where he watches over us.” Her eyes glow a bright lime green, bolts arching between her horns as her grip on the bloodstained thing in her hands tightens visibly. “So then we call!” 

The limeblood presses both halves of the sphere together, snarling as she does. The white ball glows mutedly, becoming whole and burning away the blood on its surface. And then the limeblood shrieks, as her mind is scorched away by what she sees, just like Harlow told you it would happen. You watch as her voice rises in pitch, before a blinding green light explodes in the center of the square. The ground itself shakes under your feet, as if violently recoiling from the creature now in your midst. 

“Ah,” it says, standing on a splatter of lime blood, the only thing that remains of Harlow’s mother, holding the sphere in one hand. “I do so love when people agree to follow proper protocol.” 

The Guardian is among you. 

** ℧ **

The Guardian is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. His head resembles the white ball, without features of any kind; a perfectly smooth surface without a single scratch on it. His body is somewhat disproportionate for his head, and he is, surprisingly, small in size. He wears white clothes unlike anything trolls commonly wear. And he keeps flickering, with green lightning curling lazily around him, and letting you glimpse a vast, black void in the place he stands. 

He’s terrifying, to put it simply. 

“We—“ Harlow begins, the first one to recover from the experience, but he is casually silenced by a gesture from the Guardian. 

“I know,” he says, though he has no visible mouth, and the sound of his voice, smooth and controlled, echoes in your ear, as if it were spoken right into it. It makes you shiver. “I know why you have called me, I know what lengths you have gone to find the necessary elements to do so, and I know exactly what you wish to ask of me.” He turns, slightly, and it gives you the impression he is staring at Harlow, though of course, he has no face to do so. “I commend you, for your efforts and your dedication to your cause. Well played, sir.” 

At loss for words, Harlow looks frighteningly small in comparison to the Guardian, and it has nothing to do with size. You shiver inside your cloak, certain that even the quiet ones would cower in his presence. For a moment, no one speaks, frozen in place. 

“Well?” Alilah breaks the silence, startling everyone present by the sharpness of her tone. “If you know what we’re asking for, what do you answer?” 

There is a moment of flabbergasted silence as every eye turns to her. Harlow is staring at her in horror, while Alston’s jaw might have unhinged itself. You find yourself admiring the tilt of her chin and the defiant pull of her shoulders. She is a daughter of the Singer, the Voice that gave life to the world, the Great Mother has told you so many times before. It makes sense, you suppose, that she is used to handling herself before creatures impossibly larger than herself. You spy the Great Mother’s lips curling into a fond smile, before you turn back to the impossible conversation unfolding before you. 

“Ah, my dear,” the Guardian croons, voice softening considerably, “if only it were as simple as that. Do you understand what you ask of me? You have done well, collecting the necessary items, of course.” He swept a hand around. “You have even convinced the Great Mother to join you, without whom your quest would be futile, even with my cooperation. If things had been different,” and there is a funny way in how he says that, though you are not sure what that means, “you wouldn’t need my assistance at all. The two species would have always remained one, and through sweeps and sweeps of evolution, your kind might have achieved naturally what you are proposing.” 

The world tilts off-axis, as you feel your mind taken off your skull and placed in the center of a kaleidoscope of images and sound. You have a feeling you are not the only one. You stare as the images flood your senses, almost the same way they do when you commune with the quiet ones, except you are not in control this time. You are being _shown_ this. 

You see grasslands stretching as far as the eye can see, and cities and towns full of trolls coexisting almost… almost peacefully. There is something unnatural to it, something you don’t entirely understand but makes you rebel against the idea. Trolls coexist almost peacefully within the walls of the city, but there’s a sense of wholeness in the vision that upsets you. 

“I know all,” the Guardian’s voice echoes above the noise of trolls going on about their business, and it is not even smug. “I know the possibilities and history, your past and your present and your future.” 

The scene changes, colors melting into each other until what you see before you is the night of the Great Catastrophe. You weren’t alive to remember how it happened, but given the screaming and the shrieking and the stench of burnt flesh and the meteors hammering down the earth, you can venture an educated guess. You think you catch a glimpse of members of the Council, scrambling about to survive the carnage. 

“I know everything you are, could have been.” 

An army rises in an arid battlefield. Thousands of trolls stand in precise rows, holding weapons and ready to fight. Then someone blows a horn and an echoing drumming begins somewhere in the distance, and the army launches itself forward, feral and violent and deadly. You can’t really see who they clash with, or what blood caste they belong to. It takes you a moment to realize it doesn’t really matter. 

“I know what you can become.” 

Darkness. Darkness and void. In the distance, the stars shine brightly, and you realize you are floating in the sky, so far up the world is dark and you can see the planet in the distance, twin moons circling it impassively. And across the sky, a mass of… of ships, is the closest thing you can relate them to. Thousands of them, all red and giant and terrifying, carrying a sign you don’t recognize. Like a swarm of fish, except the ocean is the universe, for them to explore. 

“I know how it will all play out.” 

And then you see monsters and colorful lands, as if from a dream, and twelve children fighting and running and laughing and crying and bleeding. It’s a whirl of color and motion and sound, far too abrupt to truly grasp, unlike the other scenes you have been shown. 

“What you ask of me is Time,” the Guardian says, as reality reasserts itself and you find yourself lying on the floor. “You ask me to make you what you would have been, if you had had time to do so. If the meteors had not destroyed everything you are. You ask me to give you a second chance.” 

Alilah, you notice, is the only one still standing, stonefaced and determined. The Great Mother is already climbing to her feet, as well, but you find you can’t quite do it yourself. No one else seems able to. 

“We do,” the seadweller says, voice cracking the air like a whip, full of command. She’s always commanding everything, you think, as if she had been hatched to put order in the world. 

“The price is steep,” the Guardian insists, a nightmare of green and knowledge. “And what you ask for, cannot be undone. You will pay in Blood and Life and Time.” 

“You know everything,” Alilah counters, hands clenching at her sides, as if searching for the culling fork she doesn’t have there. “You know everything we are, everything we have been, everything we could have been. You know you will agree to what we want.” 

The Guardian’s head glimmers almost maliciously, white and endless and terrifying. 

“Yes.” The world grinds to a halt and you are thankful the Guardian has no face to smile the smile in his tone. “Yes, I will, but not until the time is right.” 

The ground shakes, and suddenly time and sound and color set back into place. You find you can stand again, and you do so, staring at the creature at the center of your circle. All around you, trolls are slowly pulling themselves together, confused and afraid. The ground shakes again, and you turn to see part of the outer wall collapsing. The city is under attack. 

“After all,” the Guardian says, tone light and mocking and malicious and for the first time you realize how much you can hate something. “A war is not the time to discuss such matters.” 

He vanishes in a flicker of green, just as the ground shakes a third time. 

** ℧ **

Harlow barks orders Zillah and Spyros yell over to the mass of trolls around you. It takes a moment for their voices to cut through the panic and confusion spreading like wildfire across your ranks, but then the pieces fall into place. The Council breaks files and slides into place with their people, organizing platoons and squads as they go. Weapons are taken and given, and soon enough, the streets are full of trolls marching off to defend their city. The attacks on the wall have stopped, but the damage is considerable, and by the time your mismatched army is at the gates, you are expecting an army of scavengers waiting for you at the other side. 

What waits for you at the other side is something else entirely. 

The opposing force is easily ten times the size of yours. Lines upon lines of trolls stand across the field surrounding the city, carrying banners and marks of various blood castes. High above them, a troll floats in a whirlwind of psionics, blue and yellow and green and red. You can’t see it clearly, though you have a feeling it is a woman. The attackers seem to be content for the time being to display their superior numbers and see if that will be enough to cow you. 

But you are trolls, you know better than to expect mercy. 

Alilah marches at the front, fins flared in anger and culling fork firmly held in her hand. Behind her, lines and lines of trolls hold their weapons in white-knuckle grips. Spyros and Phylis are among the front lines, of course, hissing and snarling encouragement and threats to keep the lines from breaking. On the rim of the wall, Alston and the psychics under Tyrell’s control – that is to say, any troll with even a hint of psychic talent in the city – stand guard, waiting for the signal to launch their assault. Linnea and Dhraid are near the back of the lines, still within the walls, a tacit threat for those who might think of running away. Harlow and Ulyses stand at each side of the gates, ready to redirect the flow of soldiers as necessary. It doesn’t take long for the armies to be in place, yet no one makes a move. No one wants to be the one who throws the first stone. 

And then the troll in the sky points a hand – or whatever it is she is holding, she is too far above to see, but it seems like a stick – at Alilah and a bolt of lightning strikes the seadweller where she stands, causing the earth to explode around her in a shower of debris and dirt. 

Alilah honors her title by rising from the smoke, unharmed. 

“You’ll have to do better than that!” She screams at the sky, baring her teeth in a bloodthirsty snarl that transmits sheer electricity through your ranks. “But you won’t get a chance to!” 

She gives a step forward, the beginning of a charge, and suddenly battle erupts all around you. Blades are bared, screams are let loose, and the psychics take to air. The two armies rush at each other and the sound they make as they clash is the sound of death itself laughing. Your forces are laughably outnumbered, but your enemies are not as strong as they might have originally appeared. You notice the relative ease with which your soldiers plow through them, fierce and violent and without remorse. The trolls of the city have endured harshness beyond the war, and have spent sweeps pooling their strengths together. The invaders look more and more like a desperate last attempt to subdue you. 

But they still outnumber you, they still have an advantage, terse as it might be. 

“This is what my children will become,” the Great Mother tells you, coming to stand beside you atop the wall, delicate features set in a grim expression. “These are to be my children now.” 

In the sky, Alston and the unknown troll clash repeatedly, violet against a rainbow of sparks, seemingly evenly matched. 

“Yes,” you say, as she places a hand on your shoulder, her lips pulled into an empty smile. 

“Then let my children know their Mother watches over them,” she pulls away from you, stepping off the wall into the air. 

You watch as the jade glow envelops her and almost feel the moment her mind _creaks_. The brilliance of her calls attention from the battlefield, for a second stopping the fighters in their tracks. And then the ground shakes under their feet as thousands of drones punch their way out into the surface. Their slick, black hides gleam in the moonlight as they click and chitter and launch themselves into the fight, eyes glowing jade. You laugh as the invaders shriek and fall back, and laugh harder as your soldiers follow the Council’s lead and begin fighting along the drones. 

You could join in on the fight, of course. You need only stand on grass to ask the quiet ones to fight on your behalf. But you do not, because you have a more important duty than the fight. After all, every other troll has joined the fight with vicious glee. The entire city is but a well-oiled war machine that occasionally slumbers under the pretense of survival. But if you joined the fight and helped along the slaughter – and they clearly don’t need your help anymore – there would be no true witness of it. 

There would be no one to watch blood spill and flood the plain, mixing with dirt and grass into mud. There would be no one to hear the deranged laughter of those who delight in carnage more than anything else in the world. There would be no one to hear the sound of skulls caving in and guts splattering on the ground. There would be no one to see the Guardian standing on one of the towers along the wall, prim and white and spotless, seemingly watching the whole spectacle with approval. There would be no one to see the Council shriek and kill and tear and rent and destroy with all the bottled anger and frustration of the last fifty sweeps. 

There would be no one to see how the enemy army folds into itself, the moment the troll fighting Alston vanishes abruptly, abandoning the army to its fate. 

There would be no one to tell the precise moment war cries and screams melted into howls of joy and pride. 

So you do not join them in the fight, but you watch them and listen to them and commit every detail to memory, because no one else will. 

** ℧ **

“You have made your choice.” 

The riot in the main square stops abruptly, as the Guardian finds himself standing before you once more. Except this time there is no circle, no ceremony, only the disorganized celebration after a nerve-wrecking battle that went on for hours. There has been no time to think and ponder and analyze what has happened. From the summoning to the battle to the celebration, there has simply been no moment of rest or thought. 

“I accept your choice,” the Guardian says, voice soft and almost kind before he glimmers again. 

There are shrieks in the air, and you take a moment to realize you are one of those who are screaming, as a brand of gold manifests itself on your wrist, glimmering with the same green energy as the Guardian does. The rest of the Council is in much the same situation as you, clutching the bands that brand them and probably feeling like the things are burning their way through their skin. You certainly do. The crowd shifts uneasily, torn between fear at seeing their leaders fall so easily, and anger fueled by the adrenaline of the victorious battle. 

“This is our Pact,” the Guardian goes on, “Life for Life, Blood for Blood, Time for Time. Just remember, little trolls, that no matter what might happen next, you _chose_ this.” 

The world doesn’t so much go black, as it does green. It’s not particularly comforting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, done! And it only took me like forever to get it done, lmao. Comments and kudos are always appreciated. And if you have questions and the like, lemme just direct you to the [Wreckstuck tumblr](http://that-stupid-fic.tumblr.com/), because I think it's easier to answer things there than here.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and sorry again for the delay!


	8. Lime ʆ Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life Begins Anew.

** Lime ʆ Prophet **

When you wake up, every inch of your body aches. 

It’s a bone deep pain, spreading through every fiber of your being, as if trying to make you take notice of it. You do, and you regret it almost instantly. It hurts. _Living_ hurts. You know the trite cliche, but it had never felt so real before. You lie on the ground, feeling every stone under your back, and curl to the side, groaning as the pain settles in enough to be ignored. Someone clears their throat in a very pointed way, so you open your eyes a tiny slit to judge whether it’s worth waking up for or not. There’s a leg, in your line of vision. Really nice leg, mind. Terribly familiar in a way that makes you wonder if you aren’t forgetting something. The whole world is fuzzy and blurry around the edges, so you probably are. 

“…eyes are up here, Harlow,” a very testy voice informs you, and you dutifully turn your head so you can follow that leg up and up – damn nice leg, really – all the way to a hip, a waist, the swell of a breast, a long neck with fuchsia gills and eventually a very unamused-looking face. 

You squint up at Alilah, trying to place what’s wrong with her and not really able to just yet. 

“Hi,” you mumble, and as the pain starts to dull you realize you have your head pillowed on her foot. 

Oops. 

“I am not,” she says, utterly ignoring your misery and sounding rather cranky, “really in the mood for this. Haven’t been for the last perigee or so.” 

Ah, yes, the hair. That’s it. You squint at it, not really used to seeing the black curls tumble down any lower than the nape of her neck. Now it falls all the way down to her shoulders, halfway knotted, halfway tangled. 

“Your hair looks like shit,” you mention, absently, as you sit up slowly. 

Your entire body feels cramped underneath the pain, awkward and stiff. You crack a laugh when she kicks the side of your head, toppling you over into a heap. For Alilah, that’s little more than a love tap, but damn, it _hurts_. Your laughter is cut short when you realize there’s a black crust stuck to your hands, hard and cracked, sticking to you by some disgusting lime green mucus that threatens to make you gag. Higher brain function seems to kick in as you realize your entire body is covered in that shit, and you pry it off the back of your hand experimentally, making a noise of disgust as the lime goo stretches before snapping off. Underneath, the skin is grey, though, with the slight shine of freshly molted hide. You’ve never molted like this before, though. 

“The fuck?” You say, looking up only to see Alilah rolling her eyes at you. 

“Everyone’s waking up,” and there’s something in her voice, underneath the temper, that sounds weary and exhausted. You don’t like it, but before you can interject, she goes on: “You should probably get ready to face a city full of panicking trolls.” 

That doesn’t sound particularly fun, no. You try to stand up, wincing as skin stretches and pulls at the plates of black crust. It feels gross in some fundamental way you don’t have the words to articulate. You don’t feel wholly different, though, not really. You don’t really remember anything after the Guardian crashed the celebration after that battle, only the sharp pain and... you raise your left arm, and sure enough, the bracelet is there, gold and gleaming and vaguely threatening. The pieces start to fall into place, as your mind reaches some semblance of order. 

“...Alilah,” you begin, voice soft and controlled, to hide the rising dread in your tone, “how long have I been unconscious?” 

She shrugs delicately, face an impassive, unreadable mask. 

“I lost count.” 

** ʆ **

You are so out of your depth it’s not even funny. Then again, that is essentially how you’ve felt for the past fifty sweeps, so you’re well versed in handling that kind of thing. It’s all a matter of not letting others know you’ve got no fucking clue what the hell you’re doing. People are usually too busy clinging to the competent-looking troll to really ask what the hell is going on. You peel off as much of the black crust as you can, focusing on your face and your hands and the bits your clothes don’t cover properly. Now that you have something to focus on, the pain takes a backseat as you go about trying to figure out where to even start. 

As Alilah said, there is already a growing mass of panicky trolls flooding the streets. You spy the rest of the Council, most of them looking disturbed. That will not do, you need them with their heads in the game, if you want to prevent a riot. All you really want is go home, wash yourself and possibly sleep for the next sweep or so. A riot is the last thing you need. Aside from Alilah, who just looks annoyed, only Iggy seems unruffled by the whole affair. Of course he does, little shit doesn’t give a fuck about anything ever. Given what you know about him, though, you think that might be for the best. No one needs Iggy ragging and going Nurturer on your collective ass. No one needs anyone raging right now. 

Right, focus, you have a lot to do. 

You find the Great Mother looking supremely pleased with herself, smiling at the freaked out crowd. Her damn drone has always creeped you out a little, if truth ought to be told, because it looks so much like a troll and then doesn’t. It’s all the tiny details that make the hair at the nape of your neck stand on end. Your mother always said you were being silly, but you don’t dwell on the thought because thinking about your mother right now will only distract you. You don’t need distractions, you need to keep your cool and pull yourself together. 

“Go home,” the Great Mother says, voice easily rising above the clamor of the crowd, and it takes you a moment to realize the echo comes from the several dozen other drones, identical to the first, stationed around the plaza. You miss your cue, so she goes on. “You have earned your rest. Go home, reacquaint yourselves with what you have become. Time is no longer something we lack.” 

You want to add something, weigh in like you always do, but you can’t really think of anything to say that won’t undermine someone’s authority if you do. This has never happened to you before. Then again, nothing about this whole situation has ever happened to you before. 

You are out of your depth. 

“ ** _Go!_** ” Alilah snaps at the crowd, and you flinch along with them, at the sheer scorn in her tone. 

The crowd shifts around, uneasy, and you count three breaths, to make sure your voice will come out soothing and confident, but before you can offer some words of encouragement, Alilah is grabbing your elbow and tugging you away, in the direction of the house of the Ten. Clearly, she’s not going to let you make a speech. There’s another bubble of not quite panic growing in your gut, and it doesn’t make you feel better that she’s holding Alston with her other hand. You don’t fight her lead, lest it makes you seem like a panicky grub trying to throw a tantrum. You can’t afford it, even if it’s all you really want to do. 

“I can fuckin’ walk on my own,” Alston growls under his breath, stumbling to keep up with her longer strides, and you risk a look behind you, to the slowly dispersing crowd, rather than let a snide comment slide past your lips. 

You see the rest of the Council making their way after you, following the offered lead almost in relief. It feels odd not being the one at the helm, and it sinks into your gut to join the rest of the things that are biding their time to explode into a fantastic panic attack. The Great Mother stays behind, though, directing the flow of confused, disoriented trolls back to their dwellings with calm and but firm words. If they find her in any way disturbing, they are too grateful for the guidance to show it. 

“You can fucking shut up,” Alilah mutters, a touch too snide, tightening her grip on your arm and, you suppose, Alston’s as well, tugging you both closer, to fall in step with her. “Or I’ll shoosh you.” 

“Worst moirail,” he grouses, ducking his head and looking like a petulant child, “ _ever_.” 

“I’ll shoosh you both,” you find yourself saying, terrified of how much you want to just let her be in control of everything and making a token attempt to joke instead. 

“Our quadrants are fucked up enough, Harlow,” Alilah snaps, voice venomously quiet. You flinch. “Stop helping.” 

_Stop making it worse._

It’s all so wrong. You’re getting hysterical, you know. Hysterical and stupid. Your entire being hurts, your mind is a mess and you have no idea what’s going on. And above all, you’re not in control of things, not even nominally. You can’t remember not being in control before, not like this. And with Alilah and the Great Mother taking the reins so effectively, you don’t have the incentive to pull yourself together like you always do, and force your mind to go through the motions. It scares you, in a way you’ve never been scared before, the chance to sit back and let someone else lead. You’ve never had anyone’s lead but your own. All your confidence comes from your dreams, those precious fragments of truth scattered amidst the chaos that is the world around you. But you don’t have your dreams now. You dreamed the meetings and the conversations and the battles and the struggles, but you never dreamed what happens _next_. 

Suddenly, a pitch black pit opens before you, sheer uncertainty taunting you to give another step and fall into it. 

When you cross the threshold into the house of the Ten, away from prying eyes, you feel Alilah’s shoulders drop and her grip on you loosening considerably. You feel a stab of guilt as you realize just how much the strain of the whole thing has been on her; it should have been you, you think, who should have stood up and kept things in order. It should have been you, it’s your duty. Your destiny. 

“You’ll want to wash yourselves carefully,” Alilah says, as she comes to a stop inside the foyer, once the door closes behind the Conductor. “The skin won’t harden enough until a few days have passed.” 

“You’ve been through this,” Linnea says, holding herself to her full height. Her arms are folded over her belly, hands tightly clutching her sides, as if she’s trying to keep her innards from spilling out of her body. 

Her words are a statement, not a question. 

“Yes.” 

Alilah stands the scrutiny of the Council with an ease you envy a little, and she shifts her arms to rest them around your shoulders and Alston’s, subtly pulling you to her. Wordlessly, you lean in on her, at the same he does. You look at the others, studying them carefully as once more the world begins to fall into place around you. These trolls. These are the ones who have stood the closest to you throughout the sweeps. These are the trolls who believed your dreams and put their faith in your prophecies. You know them better than you know yourself, you know their thoughts and their pasts and their hatreds and their loves. These trolls, you realize, are your family. These are the ones you’ve come to trust and call siblings, whose voices you hear above anyone else’s. And whose judgment you fear the most, as well. 

“What happened?” Ulyses asks, voice uncertain, and you wish you could bring yourself to be so open about how you feel. 

“We made a Pact.” There’s something in Alilah’s voice that you wonder if anyone else can hear. “We paid with Life, and he said Blood and Time would also be paid later. So he made us into what we would have been and forced your bodies to change.” 

“But not you.” 

You give Tyrell a tired glare. Trust the greenblood to hang onto details. Always useful, when you need an extra pair of eyes and a naturally suspicious perspective from which to look at any given situation, but most of the time, tiring beyond words. And you’re already tired as it is. You notice you’re not the only one who gives the greenblood a less than amused look. 

“Not me,” Alilah nods, seemingly unruffled by his tone. “And not the Great Mother. Her transformation took much less than yours did. As for me? I’d already gone through this before.” 

“When?” 

You feel her shoulders tense as she turns to face Dhraid. The tealblood looks the most composed of the lot, oddly arrogant even though there’s a patch of crust still stuck to her cheek. She looks somewhat naked now, though, without a fan in her hand. 

“When I was younger,” Alilah replies, shrugging lightly enough she doesn’t dislodge your arm. You don’t remember wrapping it around her back, but there it is, resting above Alston’s. “I hadn’t thought of it until I saw your bodies begin to change. It’s different, when you see it happen from outside. The skin hardens into a crust, and then your insides rearrange themselves. Mother said it was like molting into your adult body. I had assumed you all had already gone through it.” There’s a small pause. “It was a very, very long time ago, I’d almost forgotten about it.” 

“Undying,” Zillah begins, then stops. The tall woman is hunching a little, standing behind Linnea, before she straightens her back and steps away from the indigoblood. “Alilah,” she tries again, voice oddly soft, “just how old are you?” 

Alilah blinks at the question, as do most of you. It’s never been something anyone concerned themselves with, except in the context that you are all getting a little on sweeps and it’d be nice to be done with this stupid mess before someone dies. Except now the mess is over and there goes the bubbly panic making a racket in your gut again. 

“Exactly? I don’t know, it’s hard to keep track of time down there.” Alilah tilts her head to the side. “I’ve always measured it by Mother’s songs, but I don’t think that’d mean much to you.” She shrugs again, smiling wryly. “I’d say maybe twenty or thirty, before I came here.” 

“Sweeps?” Ulyses adds, tone painfully hopeful. 

“Songs,” Alilah says, shaking her head, “but I don’t know how many sweeps a song lasts.” 

“Hundreds.” Every eye in the room turns to the source of the placid voice. Iggy smiles at you, deceptively small. He’s a terrible thing, you know. He’s less of a troll and more of a living force of nature, in a way Alston only wishes he could be. The sheer potential hiding underneath his skin makes you shudder. You’ve seen it, in dreams. You’ve seen his rage and his power at their peak. You know the brownbloods follow him not just out of reverence to his _other_ title, but out of more than a little fear, too. Entirely justified fear, at that. And now he smiles at you all, because he knows and you don’t. “You are the child of the Singer of the Void, the Voice that gave life to the world. Mountains rise and fall, and still She sings. We’ve heard Her songs, we don’t remember a time when She has not been singing. You are old, Alilah, older than we are. Older than but a handful. And you carry your Mother’s song, so those of us who listen and know, we bow to it. He told you as much.” 

There’s a painfully tense silence in the room, oppressive. Something is about to change, fundamentally, between all of you. You can feel the weight of the stares piling up on her, and yet she refuses to bend under it. 

“You know.” 

Alilah’s eyes narrow and her jaw sets, her spine going ramrod straight. You wish you knew. By the expression on everyone else’s face, so would they. 

“We have eyes and ears that can’t be covered, even by Him,” Iggy shrugs, smile persisting on his lips, despite his words. “We know a lot of things most trolls would prefer us not to.” 

“What will you do now?” She asks him and you tighten your arm around her, tacitly offering support. You don’t know against what, exactly, but it’s the least you can do. 

“We made a Pact,” Iggy, the thing that speaks through Iggy, says, spreading his arms wide. “Not just _us_ , but you as well. All of you. We answered the call and consented to it. We’ve paid in Life, and eventually, so we will in Blood and Time. Because of it, trolls will endure. Because of it, we will live on. We are part of this Pact, branded so we don’t ever forget what we’ve done. Now? Now we’ll live what life remains for us to live.” And then he shrugs, the creepy little shit, letting his arms fall listlessly to his sides. “I will stay at your side, Daughter of the Singer, Alilah, the _Undying_ , and just see what happens next.” 

There’s something in the way he says her title that bothers you, as if it were more than a name. You gave it to her, as both a promise and a hope. And she has not failed to live up to it, coming out of everything if not unscathed, certainly not dead. There’s nothing, you’re certain, that she cannot survive. 

“I don’t have a family, not like you do,” Alilah starts, after a moment, but despite her words she’s sinking her claws into your shoulder. You don’t make a sound even when she pierces the crust and the tender skin underneath. “I don’t have clan or people to call my own. I only have Mother, and she said my place was here and not with her. So came here, and I met you. I fought with and for you. I am not my Mother, nor her envoy. If you must bow to someone, bow to her, but not me. I follow the Council, not the other way around.” She pauses significantly, narrowing her eyes. “I suggest you do the same.” 

“The Council works,” Phylis says, interrupting whatever Iggy might have said. She rolls her eyes at the stares she gets, shaking her head as the tension snaps abruptly. “It _does_. The Council and the City work. I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going to happen next, but I don’t see why the system should change.” 

And there, at that, is the word at the heart of this, you think. Change. Everything here has been about change and renewal and making things different. But how different is different? You’ve never had much time to think about that, always busy planning and discussing and talking about the obstacles standing in the ways of your goals. Except now that you have attained your goal, what is there for you to do? 

“You know what, **_fuck_** this.” Spyros bares his teeth at you all, in what might be called a grin. “I’m tired and sticky and feeling like someone stirred my insides with a spiked mace. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to wash myself and sleep this shit off until I’m feeling vaguely like myself again. If you fuckers want to keep arguing politics and gnashing your teeth about shit, you can do it without me.” 

“Amen to that,” Alston snorts, tugging on Alilah in the direction of his room, and you by extension, since you’re still holding onto her. 

The uneasy laughter is cut abruptly by Tyrell’s voice. God, some days you want to grab the greenblood by the horns and slam his head into a wall. 

“And what says you, Dreamer?” 

You pull yourself away from Alilah’s hold, trying to hide how reluctant you are about it, and stand up straight. You don’t acknowledge the stares, because you feel like you might shatter under them. Instead, you offer Tyrell a wry smile. 

“I say we all have much to think about, and thankfully, enough time to do so.” 

It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, but you can’t think of anything else. You’ve always had something better to say, something deep and touching, like in your dreams. In the end, you all go your separate ways, dealing with this as best you can. 

You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve failed them somehow, though. 

** ʆ **

When you are, quoting Spyros, feeling vaguely like yourself again, a few nights have passed. You can move your body without feeling like you are being tortured and aside from a minute change in your center of gravity, you don’t feel all that different, all things considered. You drag your sorry ass down the main dining hall for breakfast and find it ominously empty. Taking it in stride, you shrug and head downstairs to the underground food preparation block. And if there’s nothing there, well damn, you’ll go out and _hunt_ something. Now that you’ve sated your body’s need for sleep, it’s suddenly remembered it’s ravenously hungry. You still don’t know how you feel about a lot of things, but you’re studiously procrastinating thinking on anything more complicated than food until you can find a quiet spot and think really hard about things until they stop being stupid and start making sense. 

This plan fails spectacularly when you find Alilah minding something or other in the room. 

There’s an awkward moment while you stand in the doorway, watching her move with the same surefooted confidence here as she does everywhere else, and all you can think of is that her hair is still a mess and you should probably fix that. And there’s also the way you notice her body curves and turns as she moves, and there’s always this impression you have, that she’s being thoroughly careful about things, lest she breaks them without noticing. And that thought does fuzzy, weird things to your brain, but you try not to think too much about it, because that leads to awkward, stupid thoughts that only make you mad. 

“Either sit down and eat, or turn around and leave,” Alilah says after a moment, not looking up from the loaf of bread she just pulled out of the oven. “But stop undressing me with your eyes, Harlow, it’s _rude_.” You make a strangled sound in the back of your throat, hands clenched tightly on the doorframe, and then she has the fucking nerve to _look_ at you. No, not look. _Leer_. “Really, it’s most uncouth.” 

There’s a thousand different ways to react to that, and you choose the one you’ll regret the least: you glare at her. 

“Maybe I wouldn’t take such notice about your state of undress,” you manage to say, eyes narrowed, “if it weren’t such a rare thing to see you actually _wearing_ clothes for a change.” 

You regret it anyway, seeing the way her face closes off to you, expression turning indifferent. It scares you, sometimes, how perfectly aware of her you are, at all times. Alilah is always a monstrous whirlwind of strength and activity, always insatiably curious about everything, always standing just off the side and outside of everyone’s reach. You’ve never been able to shake the feeling that she exists outside of everyone else’s circle of influence, even yours. Most specially yours. You only wish she would agree with you on that. 

It’s terrifying how much you want to step in, wrap your arms around her and apologize profusely for upsetting her. It’s terrifying how much it upsets _you_ to see her anything less than happy. 

You are responsible for several thousand trolls, you can’t sit back and focus your attention on the two you love and hate the most. Alston understands, for all he bitches and whines, because he’s old and he knows trolls and how fickle they are. Alston is willing to pretend you don’t hate each other as much as you really do, and lets you fall into an easy friendship with him instead. Alston lets you not give him as much importance as you should, so you can focus on your mission. If your would-be kismesis affords you so much, shouldn’t your would-be matesprit do as well? Shouldn’t it be easier to be friends with a troll you pity than a troll you hate? 

Alilah won’t let you be her friend, not the same way she’s Linnea’s. Or Spyros’. Or even Tyrell’s. Alilah won’t ever let you forget you pity her more than anyone you’ve ever known, because _she_ pities _you_ and she doesn’t care about the politics behind the whole thing. You want to grab her and shake her until she grasps the full implications behind the mess that is your life. You want to kiss her until you run out of air. You want to stop feeling like regardless of what you choose, you’d be making a mistake. 

“I’m not really all that hungry anyway,” you mutter almost mechanically, stepping back and then quietly scurrying away, just so you won’t have to deal with the weight of that fuchsia glare. 

You hate feeling like you have been chased out of your own damn hive, but you don’t have the peace of mind to stick around and argue. You are an expert in arguing with stubborn trolls and figuring a way to talk people into doing what you want them to do, but the thing with Alilah is that no amount of convoluted rhetoric will change the basis of her logic, because her ridiculously stubborn, politically incorrect logic happens to be based on solid fact. It’s infuriating. 

You find yourself wandering around the streets, not really sure where you’re going. You watch the trolls awkwardly minding their business, looking dazed and a little lost. They are trying to recover their footing, even in the face of so much new information to absorb and process. You find a stall selling roasted featherbeast, the greenblood working behind the counter focused on his work with single-minded devotion. You order some of it, but when you reach over to pay, he sees the bracelet wrapped tightly around your wrist and he refuses to accept a single kip for the food. He gives you a reverent, wide-eyed look, thanking you profusely for choosing his humble establishment to the point you end up walking away from his frantic praise. 

Turning left on the next street, you take the stairs outside one of the nearby hives and make your way to the roof. It has a relatively good view of the main square, and the house of the Ten, looming further in the background. You choose to sit on the very edge, feet dangling off as you unwrap your meal. Your innards twist painfully as you inhale the sweet scent of herbs and meat, and you begin eating slowly, imposing your will on your body’s howling demands. You tear the meat off the bones with your claws, bite size pieces you methodically pass through your lips. You chew and taste and make yourself enjoy the tang of spice and the sweetness of the herbs and the fullness of the meat. As you eat, carefully turning the featherbeast into a pile of bones, you look down from your perch, watching nameless trolls mill about, walking or running or pacing. About an hour or two later, groups begin to form and you spy the Great Mother’s drones standing in the center of the circles, talking animatedly and waving their arms as they explain something or another to the trolls around them. Some trolls quickly walk away from the crowds, heads hung low and postures tense. Most stay, though, seemingly soaking in her every word. 

You wonder what she’s talking about. 

You’ll have to ask her, later, if you want to find out. The thought terrifies you. You worry a bone between your teeth, hands holding onto the edge of the roof as you walk yourself through a few mental exercises to purge the panic from your gut. It’s not entirely successful, perhaps because you’ve never had much use for them before. Perhaps because it was your mother who taught them to you, her voice soothing and slow as she talked you through the worst of your fits. 

You’ve always been a really shitty prophet, all things considered. You’re meticulously accurate in your predictions, dreaming hours upon hours of conversations and battles and journeys. But you’ve never been really good dealing with the aftermath. You cried for weeks after your first dream about the Great Catastrophe. Other trolls don’t understand it, not even other limebloods. Only your mother ever did, because your powers run from her line and work similarly enough for her to feel sorry for you. You do not _see_ , you _live_. When you dream, you find yourself caged inside a body, going through the motions and forced to experience everything first hand. Sometimes you’re yourself, sometimes you’re not. 

You have spent entire sweeps dreaming under the skin of your fellow members of the Council, as well as dozens and dozens of other trolls, feeling what they feel, knowing what they know, hurting when they hurt. You know what it feels like: a burn on your arm, a broken ankle, a tattoo on your forearm, a stab wound, watching your family die, giving in to despair, having to kill your best friend, being so terrified you can’t move, getting pummeled by a meteor, fighting something easily a hundred times your size. When you dreamed of the world ending, it wasn’t images or whispers or words. You’ve died a thousand deaths, fought a thousand wars, spilled blood, sweat and tears. 

You’ve always _known_ , it’s the cornerstone of your being. 

You’ve always known you would find the others. 

You’ve always known you would travel the length of the planet twice over. 

You’ve always known your city would stand tall and survive. 

You’ve always known your mother would die to complete the ritual, proud and satisfied with her own end. 

But you never knew you would survive after all was said and done. In your heart of hearts, you never thought you should. You were entrusted a grand mission, by Fate and Paradox, and you’ve always known what happens to those who are chosen that way: they become legends, folktales, myths. You were supposed to die, so that trolls could eventually forget your face and your name and everything but your deeds. That is how it always goes. When you came to accept the immutable fact that your mother would be giving her life for your goal, you quietly consoled yourself with the knowledge you’d soon follow her. You never allowed yourself quadrants for this very reason: Alston and Alilah were meant to move on, after your death. To forget you along with the rest, like all your friends and family, and let you pass onto history as a nameless figure no one really cares about. 

But you didn’t die, and you’ve run out of dreams and certainties and prophecies to hold your hand and guide you to the light. Your mother’s gone and the world is moving on, dragging you along with it. Except this time there is nothing left for you to do, to keep you from contemplating how much everything hurts. You spit the bone out of your mouth, watching it turn and twist and fall into the streets below, and stop fighting the urge to curl up. You fold your legs up so you can rest your forehead against your knees, arms tightly wrapped around your ankles. 

You are Harlow, son of Delphi, limeblood and prophet. 

You’re ninety five sweeps old, sitting alone on a rooftop, feeling all of trollkind weighing down your spine. You have lost everything you hadn’t already given up, for the sake of your mission. There are many things you want, many things you’d hoped for, all of which seem entirely out of your reach now. Below you, the trolls you’ve fought and sacrificed everything for go on with their lives, unaware of anything, secure in the knowledge the Council is there, to shelter and guide and protect them. You envy the simplicity of their lives, without prophecies or destinies or politics or any real hard decisions to make. 

Alone and tired and terrified, you weep. 

** ʆ **

When Alston opens the door, he has the haunted, broken look of a troll that has been forcefed everything he needs to know about sex. It's a common look around the city, these days. It makes your lips twitch. 

"She found you, didn't she," you say, voice twisting in all sorts of unkind, fiendish ways and you laugh outright when all he does is shudder violently. 

As far as you know, Alston was the only member of the Council who had escaped the Great Mother’s clutches when her drones cornered you in the hall and sat you down and began explaining all the wondrously _fascinating_ little changes that were brought with your transformation. She’s always so happy and so excited about the whole thing that even if the subject matter weren’t so distinctly uncomfortable, you’re pretty sure it would still have been poorly received simply by virtue of her delivery. It didn’t really help that Phylis kept asking questions, or that Ulyses kept choking on spit, or that Spyros kept cackling. The only one who didn’t seem particularly horrified by the whole thing was Zillah, but her being a rustblood explained that. 

As for yourself? You’re not entirely sure how you feel about anything, much less something like this. 

"You know what she told me?" He says, coming to sit on your rest slab before giving up pretenses and curling up on your sheets and covers, making a small pile out of them. 

"Go find someone to fuck?" You venture, since that seems to be the Great Mother's advice for everyone. 

"No," Alston snaps, then shivers. "Well, yes. But also, she made a point to remind me seadwellers and landwellers should be perfectly compatible now." 

You choke on air, trying to cough instead of laugh. 

" _Perfectly compatible_ ," Alston repeats, curled up into a little ball. "She had drawings, Harlow. And charts." 

Unable to handle that, you laugh. You laugh good and hard and lean on the wall to keep yourself upright, but all you manage is slide down it as you cackle like a fiend. 

"Fuck you," Alston whimpers at you, huddling under your blankets, "fuck you in all the most explicit non-explicit ways I can muster." 

The laughter dies in your throat. 

“Don’t.” 

The mood change in the room is so abrupt it can almost be heard. You don’t care. You press yourself against the wall, giving Alston a heavy look. Your mouth shifts into a taunt, flat line, and you let your expression close off. He pokes his head from his mound of cloth, blinking at the sharpness of your tone. He knows you well, he knows you far too well. 

“Harlow?” 

You shake your head, looking away when he pulls himself off his melodramatic tantrum and walks over to where you are. 

“Don’t,” you repeat, voice soft. 

You don’t shove him off, when he slides down into your lap, resting his forehead on your shoulder. You don’t move away when he wraps his arms around you. You really wish you could. You growl at the feeling of his skin on yours, infinitely colder and always almost slick. You don’t remember wrapping your arms around him, but the savage thrill you feel, when your claws dig in and his breath hitches, is almost terrifying. You want to push them further into his skin, until the coarse seadweller hide parts under them and his blood wells up in welts. It takes every fiber in your being to resist the urge. 

“At some point,” he says, slow and calm and almost smug, “we’ll have to talk about it.” 

There’s a purring undertone in his voice, a dragging of vowels that twists uncomfortably in your gut. You hate this agreement most out of all you’ve made in your life. You hate this game of concessions and considerations. You hate that he’s better at this than you’ll ever be. 

“No,” you hiss, tilting your head back until your horns scrap against the wall. 

“Yes,” Alston insists, tugging on you, to try and pull you against him. 

You resist. You always resist, this temptation and all the rest. You resist everything. You endure. 

“ _No_ , Alston,” you repeat, hands kneading on his shoulders, letting him feel a ghost of your claws. “There’s nothing for us to talk about. Certainly not abou— _ah!_ ” 

He sinks his teeth into the base of your neck and the rush of blood in your veins becomes so loud it is the only thing you can hear. You arch your back, choking on a moan, as he tightens his hold until skin breaks and blood rushes into his mouth. The world tilts off axis. He’s never made you bleed before, not since… not since you agreed you would never be a quadrant, much less consummate it. He’s never made you bleed before and the spike of heat in your groin makes you feel like the floor just dropped from under your feet. It didn’t feel like this, before. 

You’ve always hated Alston, from his title to his power to his attitude to the way he just seems… _unending_. The world can end – has ended – and Alston will still live on. You hate the way he’s arrogant and undignified and terrifying and lazy and gorgeous and so, so very _spiteful_ about everything. Every single thing is personal for him. Every tiny detail constitutes a calculated insult in his eyes. You’ve always wanted to dig your claws into his skull and rearrange his pan until he understands that the world itself doesn’t revolve around him. That there are things that matter more than him or you or any one troll, and that not everything necessarily concerns him. You’ve always hated Alston with such a devoted, burning black that you’re pretty sure you’re incapable of hating any other. 

But it wasn’t like this, before. You didn’t lust for him this way, before. You open your eyes – didn’t even realize you’d close them – and make a conscious effort to drop your hands to the floor. It scares you, how much you want him now. He lets go of your throat, shifting until he’s staring at you. The spike of heat sinks in deeper, twisting as it goes, as you stare at your blood dripping down his chin. 

“Please,” you say, infinitely proud because your voice doesn’t break, “don’t do this to me.” 

He swallows hard, fin flaring and eyes narrowing. For a tortuously long moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. Fuck everything sideways, you _want_ him to kiss you. Then he pulls away from you, standing up with nimble grace. Without the coolness of his skin, the heat of your own is suffocating. 

“You’re an asshole, Harlow,” he mutters, wiping the blood on his face. “A bona fide fucking asshole.” 

You watch him storm away, not bothering to reply. 

** ʆ **

It’s about noon, when you wake up from your third day terror. Your neck hurts, where the imprint of Alston’s teeth is throbbing almost smugly, and that spike of lust and heat is still firmly lodged in your groin. You stare at the ceiling, lying flat on your back, and absently run your hands over the fabric of your linens. They smell like Alston. It’s not really helping. 

You give up sleep then, and dreams of hazy violet and brute lust and terrible, terrible screaming. Your dreams are worse, now, when you wear your own skin and see nothing but the rage and death that plagues all trolls in their sleep. You gather your clothes, staring at the lime fabric for a long, long moment before settling it down. It makes you feel small, not wearing the extra folds of cloth, but you think small is the right thing to feel, for now. You don’t think too hard about the owner of the clothes you’re wearing, either, and instead make your way through the corridors of the hive, bare feet making no sound as you walk. You trail your fingers along the walls, exquisitely decorated with signs and swirling motifs, and make your way downstairs into the basement floors, away from the searing light sneaking in through the windows. 

You know exactly where the servants keep their own stock of alcohol, which is often stronger and rougher than the refined one the Council is generally gifted. You pick up a large blue jar, nearly the size of your head, and make your way to the long table set in the middle of the food preparation block. You set the jar down and go find a shallow plate, a pitcher of fresh water and some large fruits the Nurturer grew explicitly for this purpose. You peel the crust and separate the liths, licking the juice off your fingers and placing a few on the nearby plate. You add water and some of the alcohol, then use a spoon to crush the fruit and release the juice. 

The first sip burns all the way down your throat until it settles into the pit of your stomach like a spiked ball of warmth. The second fills your head with fuzz. The third one has you staring at the ceiling in utter fascination. 

Six little plates later, each one progressively less carefully prepared than the one before, you find yourself sprawled on the table, clawing at your hair and glaring sullenly at nothing in particular. And then Ulyses stumbles into the room. You would be considerably more mortified about this if you could remember why you’d care in the first place. 

“Whoa,” the smaller troll says, coming to take a seat next to you. “Guess I wasn’t the only one that got lucky, huh.” You blink blearily at him as he nods in an infuriatingly self-satisfied way and reaches for your little plate of miracles and wonders, to serve himself a drink. You want to hiss and manage only to gurgle. “Yeah, it’s that kind of night.” 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you shouldn’t feel so at ease but you’re drunk off your ass and the world is not hurting all that hard anymore. For now. 

“You know,” Ulyses goes on, after taking a sizeable sip of his drink, “you don’t look nearly as wrecked as I expected you to be.” You make an inquiring noise, lifting your head again and not really recalling letting it drop into your arms in the first place. He shrugs. “Well, you two’ve been waiting _sweeps_ , haven’t you?” He takes another sip. “Dunno, if it were me, I’d still be in there.” 

Through the thick haze of alcohol, you get the firm impression that whatever conversation Ulyses is having with you, is not the same one you should be having. You can’t exactly pinpoint why, so instead you rub your face with the sleeve of your shirt, growling in frustration when you actually get a good look at it. You deadeye the violet fabric as if it had personally offended you. Stupid fucking Alston. Stupid fucking hateful bastard. Stupid fucking _everything_. 

“Yeah,” Ulyses chuckles, making you realize you slurred your thoughts out loud. “I get the feeling. Fucking kismesis, huh? But life’d be boring without them.” 

“I’d take boring,” you mutter sullenly, digging your fingers into your hair again. 

It reminds you, for no reason whatsoever, that you still need to fix the disgusting mess that is Alilah’s, a task you have been procrastinating for the sake of your sanity. You’ve been sort of avoiding everyone, in general, trying to make sense of your own feelings and wow is this not the shittiest time to start thinking about that or what? You groan into your arms again. 

“Fuck seadwellers,” you hiss snidely. 

“Er, I. Uh.” Ulyses tilts back the rest of the plate. “Maybe I’ll leave that to you.” 

You can’t take this. You’re too fucking sober to take this. You’ll always be too sober to take this. You make a disgruntled sound and push yourself up, glaring down at the table before reaching for the plate. Ulyses watches you with something you’d recognize as sheer awe, if you weren’t drunken stupid and working on getting worse, as you focus all your remaining rags of sobriety in putting together another round of drink. 

“…so,” the blueblood says, after a moment, “can I ask something incredibly gross and personal and could you maybe answer me and not try to cull me?” 

“Huh?” You grunt, and he takes it for ascent, which at this point you don’t really care because _holy shit_ , the room keeps spinning. 

“How was it?” You stare, and instead of clarifying, he blurts out a wave of words that don’t really make sense to you. “Cause I heard someone say their fucking bulges have _spikes_. And I dunno, never gotten close enough to one to see for myself but really? Spikes? Spikes don’t go inside nooks, holy fuck. And then there was this girl in the Broken Scythe that said that maybe they glow in the dark, because they gotta fuck underwater and that’s so fucking _freaky_. Except someone said it wouldn’t work because how do you gather the stuff and how fucking gross would it be to swim in their goddamn crap because that’s just uncivilized and you’re not even listening to what I’m saying, are you.” 

You squint at him for a moment, taking the words and shaking them around until they form something vaguely like a coherent sentence. 

“Not really,” you say, and you leave it at that. 

Ulyses nods sagely and grants you the mercy of silence. The hangover more than makes up for it. 

** ʆ **

There’s something soothing, about walking with Phylis and Spyros at your side. The goldblood is perched on the purpleblood’s shoulder, as usual, but for once the giant troll is slouching about at a pace you can keep up with. There’s just something so... carefree about them that makes you feel better about everything. They don’t worry about politics or complaints or anything like that. Spyros assumes his people will follow his lead, no matter where he goes, which admittedly is a well-rooted assumption since the fact is that they _will_. Phylis is not a leader of her people, has never been and will never be, so she doesn’t really fuss much whether the goldbloods listen to her or not. You worry about that, sometimes, but there’s just this energy around both that you can’t really argue with for long. They revolve around each other and the rest of the world can either join in on the dance or get left behind. 

The amazing thing about them is that even if they did leave the rest of the world behind, you’ve always thought they would still be alright. 

Must be nice, you think, to not need anything outside a quadrantmate. To have the certainty that no matter what, they will always be there with you. You ignore the thought as you concentrate on the story they’re telling you, a little amused at the way they fill each other’s sentences and complete each other’s thoughts. There’s something wholesome and complete about them that humbles you a little, because you’re not sure you’ll ever find something like that. You think you might want to, but then you remember that’s one of the things you’ve always wanted that you’ll never have. 

The city is flourishing again, however. The market is back on schedule and the streets are as busy as ever, full of trolls going on about their business and pointedly not asking who does what with whom. You didn’t expect that. The sanctity of blood is something all castes have in common, because the only thing that ever came out of inbreeding were mutants that could barely be called trolls. It is one of the oldest taboos of your people, and while there was disbelief and a certain level of uncertainty whenever the Great Mother emphasized the possibility, the rejection is not nearly as widespread as you would have expected. It has something to do, you think, with the many sweeps the castes have been banded together and the lack of proper social division among you. The worst part is that it’s not something you planned or dreamed or hoped for. It was oddly organic, with hatreds and friendships blooming out of constant contact with each other, pushing trolls to reach for each other in ways they wouldn’t have, before. 

You laugh, because Phylis and Spyros laugh, but you don’t even register the joke, snared by your own thoughts. They can ignore the blood situation because their relationship is conciliatory, and as far as you know, utterly absorbing. Their moirallegiance is an encompassing force that takes up every aspect of their lives, and they have no quadrants outside of each other. It’s not for lack of options, either. You’re pretty sure just by their position of power within the city, there’s more than a few of their own blood willing to take them. You know of more than one limeblood that has subtly – or not so subtly – approached you in a romantic fashion. You wonder what would happen if you took a fellow limeblood as a matesprit or a kismesis, and you don’t get far in the little flight of fancy before you feel ill. 

“You think too much, Dreamlord,” Phylis tells you as she slides off Spyros’ back with remarkable ease. “It’s written all over your face.” 

“Well,” you say, arching an eyebrow at her as Spyros goes off to yell something or another at a group of purplebloods unloading the results of their hunting expedition in one of the large butcher blocks. “Someone _ought_ to.” 

“And that’s why we have Dhraid,” Phylis retorts shamelessly, hooking her thumbs on one of her belts and grinning. “Or Linnea. Or Alilah. Or Tyrell. Heck, even Spit. Me, if you’re that desperate.” She arches an eyebrow at you, and you feel oddly like a child being chastised. “ _You_ think too much. And then your face’s gonna get stuck in that frown. Yes, that one.” 

You snort, shaking your head as you dispel said frown. 

“And I suppose you think I ought to not think at all,” you scoff a little. 

“Of course not, you ain’t got what it takes to not think,” she pats your arm, as if this were such a great loss, “maybe we can teach you, and with enough sweeps of practice you might master the art. But you should not think _that_ much, it’s okay to just have fun sometimes, you know?” 

“I have fun!” You give her a prim look, absently standing up straighter and tugging the folds of your clothing to you. 

Phylis is unimpressed by the display, snorting instead. 

“Oh yeah, totally.” She snickers at you, tugging at the lime fabric and making you yelp as it nearly dislodged itself from your shoulder. “You redefine fun, alright.” 

“Will you stop trying to undress me?” You snap at her, huffing as you try to fix the fabric so it falls into place again. Your efforts to reprimand the goldblood only serve to make her laugh at you, and the more you scowl, the harder she cackles at you. 

“You know what you should do?” Phylis grins, fangs gleaming almost predatorily. It’s an unnervingly fitting expression and you don’t like it aimed at you that way. “You should go hang out with Ulyses more. I bet some of his crazy will rub off on you, and you might even do us all a favor if some of _your_ boring rubs off on _him_.” 

You grimace, recalling vague impressions of a drunken conversation you are sure you’d regret more if you could actually remember it properly. You shudder at the thought. 

“I don’t think I will, no,” you manage to say, looking at the trolls milling about the butcher block, so you don’t have to see Phylis roll her eyes at you. “I’m more than happy with my levels of crazy, and I’m sure Ulyses appreciates his own levels of… boring.” 

“Bah,” she waves a hand dismissively, and though you refuse to look, you can feel the weight of her eyes on you. “I do mean it, though.” 

“What do you mean?” Spyros asks, as he joins you again, absently reaching a hand to pluck Phylis off the ground. 

You watch him place her delicately on his shoulder; the way she doesn’t struggle in his hold, the way his posture shifts to compensate for her weight, and that fleeting moment when their eyes meet and they share a small, intimate smile. You watch and pretend you don’t, feeling something lodged up inside your throat that might be longing. 

“That the Dreamlord’s having lunch with us,” Phylis says, after the moment’s broken, one hand holding onto Spyros’ horn. 

“I am?” You blink up at her, wondering when this was decided. 

“You are, apparently,” Spyros rumbles a low laugh, nudging you gently and nearly toppling you off your feet. “Come along, now.” 

“But—“ You heave a sigh as they give you identical, waiting looks, letting your shoulders slump a little. “Alright, alright. We’ll go.” 

You end up paying for everyone’s meal, as Phylis bullies you to cough up the coins and then bullies the poor owner into accepting them. Spyros just laughs throughout the whole thing, though you swear at some point he gives you a long, measuring look. It’s gone when you turn to look for it again, but the feeling lingers. It doesn’t help with the already growing unease. 

** ʆ **

“Here.” 

You stumble back from the force of the blow, wheezing as you clutch your glaive tightly against your chest. Zillah gives you an exasperated stare, waiting for you to be done with what she seems to think are theatrics. You find yourself annoyed at that, given how the tall rustblood just knocked all air out of you in the process of shoving your own weapon into your hands. You glare at her a little, and open your mouth to ask what the hell’s gotten into her now, but she doesn’t even let you get the words out. 

“You’re going hunting with us,” she says, turning to walk away and clearly expecting you to follow after her. 

You take a moment to blink rapidly at her retreating back, fingers slack around the hilt of the weapon, before you manage enough brain power to stutter properly. Since you aren’t following, Zillah heaves an irritated sigh, turns around and then hauls you along by the arm, making you feel she’s going to tug it off its socket at some point. 

“Um,” you try, unsuccessfully, to make her let go of you, “why?” 

“Because you’re a jittery little shit and it’s pissing me off,” Zillah’s tone is matter of fact. You splutter gloriously, choking on a laugh at the self-righteousness of her tone. “You need to relax.” 

“Right,” you snort, resigned to be dragged around by the larger troll, “only. You know, limebloods don’t consider killing things relaxing. We do meditation and long walks by the beach and maybe playing music.” 

“That’s because limebloods don’t know any fucking better,” she shoves you through the door, and you feel very accomplished because you don’t stumble and somehow skewer yourself with your own blade. You’re still a little uneasy handling it, but at least you’ve yet to stab yourself in the face. That’s progress, you think. “It’s okay, though, I don’t hold it against you.” 

“Gracious of you,” you mutter, a tad snidely, and take a moment to fix your clothes a little. The effort is for naught when she all but shoves you forward, nearly throwing you down the large staircase connecting the house of the Ten with the main street. You blink as you realize there’s a large contingent of rustbloods waiting at the foot of the stairs, watching you expectantly. Large enough, you note, that it might as well be every single rustblood in the city. “Wait, you mean we’re going _now_?” 

“Yes,” Zillah says, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you to her. “No time like the present.” 

“But I’m not—“ 

“Relax, Harlow,” there’s something stern and yet oddly comforting in the command, that makes you fall into step with her, docile. “I’ve got your back, Dreamer.” 

Strangely enough, you believe her. 

** ʆ **

Hunting with the rustbloods turns out to be an adventure. Not exactly what you’d call relaxing, either, but sort of nice nonetheless. You’re a little intimidated by the fact you’re the only outsider in their group, and there are curious looks following your every movement, but they’re not hostile. It’s not reverence either, for which you’re grateful. You’re a little sick of people looking at you with adoration. The way the rustbloods skirt around you seems tentative, though, as if testing the waters and whether you’ll react favorably to being included. You’re not sure how to feel about that, but for the best part of the first night, you’re too busy trying to keep up with their pace to really bother thinking too much about things. 

Even after all these sweeps, they’re still an army at heart. They trot in a graceful formation, steps perfectly timed with each other as they balance their weight and their weapons, and still somehow manage to move at a frightening speed. You feel awkward, your steps breaking the harmony of their drumming feet, but no one seems to mind. Your legs ache after an hour, bone deep as muscles protest every tug and twist, but you help yourself ignore it by studying the patterns and the ripples in the mass of trolls around you. They move in groups of five or ten or twenty, advancing or falling back, and the constant rippling lines makes them seem far more numerous than they are. It takes you another hour to realize you’ve lost track of Zillah, as she gets lost in the march. Before you can panic properly, you see her horns standing out of the crowd at the other end of the formation, shifting along with the rest. You wonder how exactly she got there, but then, you are too busy hurrying along to worry about it for long. 

After what feels like forever, they come to a stop, slowing down gradually without anyone having to signal for it. You’ve long left Iggy’s forest behind, though the greenery is still present. They shift about, setting small fires and unpacking supplies out of nowhere. You watch them move, oddly fascinated by the deep bond they share, unspoken in every gesture and every turn. It’s not that noticeable, within the city, where trolls have learned to mingle and coexist with each other and there isn’t all that much caste division anymore. Sure, there are hiveblocks where certain bloods gather more densely, but it’s neither enforced nor regulated. And the city thrives on its own diversity, on the snarling fights and the drunken celebrations and the rough camaraderie because you’re all survivors and that is a bond almost as deep as blood. But in that there is loss as well, you realize. This is identity and culture and history and tradition, slowly watered down by wear and foreign contact. This is everything you once were and will never be again. The rustbloods still know how to march in sync with each other, their steps the very drums of war that have guided their lives for countless generations. But they also know the comforts of a walled sanctuary and the companionship of those they once hunted down and mercilessly slaughtered. And you wonder, as you watch them begin to roast a small feast, what will be of their children, _your_ children, when their time comes. What will they learn, how will they grow, who they will call ancestor. 

Children are your future, the weight behind your quest and the journeys and the city and the Council and the Pact. They are the continuation of life and the promise that you will endure the passage of time, and something of you all will remain, once you’re gone. But as the Guardian warned you, the price was steep. The relationship that you have established with the Great Mother threatens the very foundations of your society. All your societies, really. The clan-based and the family-based and the blood-based and the necessity-based. You don’t think most have really thought about the consequences of it, beyond the immediate. So sex is a little different than it used to be, and no one really wants to talk much about it because it gets awkward real quickly. But beyond that, what does it all mean? Beyond the Great Mother’s insistence that your great taboo is no longer of consequence and that the last barrier between bloods has all but been abolished, what does it mean for those children? What legacy will they inherit? What place will they have in the great cycles that govern your life? 

To you and your kind – and funny how you can still think of _them_ as your kind, in moments like this, when the Council has all but usurped their place in your life – family is paramount. Limebloods share talents along bloodlines and the bonds you forge with them last for a lifetime. Parents and siblings and quadrants and quadrantcorners. Your entire society was once based on webs of relationships and how you were all connected by the invisible thread of prophesized fate. What will be of the new limebloods that hatch? Who will be their parents? Who will be their siblings? Who will teach them the ways of prophecy and their duty to predestination? You have never had children before, and the thought of having them still terrifies you when you stop long enough to grasp it, but even if you did, who would they be to you now? Would they mourn you when you die, the same way you mourn your mother even now? 

It’s not just your people who will eventually face these questions. For all trolls are violent and antagonistic, you all social creatures. You _need_ each other to survive. Each caste has sated that need in their own way, with their own rites and history and traditions. And now, in the face of your victory, you wonder how they will be preserved, or if they will be discarded and forgotten in the end. And if you do away with the past, what will come in to fill the void? What will define trollkind? Survival despite the odds? Violence? Coexistence? 

No one has answers to your questions, and that is the crux of your fears. These are the questions that they will ask you, one day, when the reality of what you did finally sinks for them. They will come to you and demand answers you do not have, because the well of dreams has dried out. 

“You suck at this relaxing thing,” Zillah says, as she shoves a bundle of leaves into your hands. 

You chuckle a little hysterically at that, not quite able to verbalize your thoughts, and instead peer down at your hands, blinking as you discover meat between the green folds. The smell kicks you in the teeth as your stomach suddenly feels caved in and you realize you’re starving. 

“I know,” you say after a moment, swallowing hard and ignoring your watering mouth. “I’m trying.” 

“Try harder,” Zillah deadpans, sitting down on the grass and pulling you down roughly to sit down next to her. “This is an outing to lift morale, so you better start acting like it.” 

You can’t help but laugh at that, before you start on your meal. You try not to let your ravenous hunger get the better of you, but you slowly lose inhibitions about it as you realize everyone around you is pretty much devouring their own share without shame. You ponder Zillah’s words as you eat, letting your eyes wander over to the various little groups here and there. You remember the rustbloods when they first joined you, sweeps ago. They used to sit and eat together like this, but back then there have been no smaller groups. For some reason, they seem to you like tiny fractures, and you can’t quite shake the thought away. So you focus on Zillah instead. The way she growls and laughs and taunts, and the trolls around her growl and laugh and taunt back. It’s different from how she carries herself around the Council, but in a strange way, not entirely. She’s at ease with them and she’s at ease with you; it’s just another type of ease. 

You are still pondering the differences when the camp is swiftly broken and the march resumed, but then you’re back to forcing yourself to match their pace for the next few hours, so you don’t let yourself think too much. When you finally stop, heading into the depths of a cave large enough to house the whole group, you are a collection of tired aches and interesting pains in body parts you didn’t even know you had. The rustbloods gather into piles of bodies, limbs sprawling everywhere, and you’re too tired to care when you’re summarily shoved into one of them. It’s raining hard outside, when dawn breaks, so the shared body heat turns humid and somewhat stifling. And yet, it’s the best sleep you’ve had in more than a perigee. 

The actual hunting begins the next night, about an hour before dusk. The rustbloods break into groups, almost without much thought put into it, so you’re grateful Zillah unceremoniously shoves you towards hers. You are hunting, apparently, roarbeasts. You have no earthly idea why the fuck they’d want to hunt the goddamn things, since they’re cranky and ferocious and usually something you really don’t want to piss off. They don’t give much food and the pelts are heavy and start to rot quickly, too, unless properly treated. 

“They fight back,” Zillah tells you, with a feral grin that makes you very glad you have never really found yourself at the mercy of her axe. “There’re a lot of things out there that are hard to kill, sure, but these fuckers _fight back_. It’s good for morale.” 

You’re not entirely sure you follow the logic of that. You don’t get much time to consider it, either. A few hours later, you feel like you’re missing a chunk of arm, you’ve had two severe profanity meltdowns, and you’ve learned what sound does a roarbeast’s skull makes when it gets impaled by a fear-fueled glaive. The rustbloods in your group are ecstatic. Zillah keeps grinning at you like a feral thing. And you think you might be getting high on the excitement filling the cave as you help skin the beast. More groups come in, dragging along the results of their own hunts, and you’re covered in blood and guts and Zillah keeps needling you on and you keep snarking back, and this is the most fun you’ve had since you were six and you and your siblings ran a herd of bleatbeasts through the main square of the citadel. 

The spell is broken when you find yourself kissed by a pretty, pretty rustblood with long, jagged horns and a scar down his chin. You bite him in retaliation, pulling away in an awkward scramble. He blinks at you, a smear of blood down his neck and lazy lust curling in his gaze, before he shrugs. 

“Pity that,” he rasps, licking his lips and shifting over into the lap of a woman a few feet away. 

You stare as he kisses her and finds absolutely no resistance there. You turn shocked eyes around you, trying to find someone who shares your surprise at the turn of events, but you only find more and more expressions of rampant lust. 

“Oh fuck,” you mutter quietly, casually pulling away from the group of trolls that are quickly working themselves into an orgy. 

You’ve heard about rustblood orgies, of course. _Everyone_ ’s heard about rustblood orgies. It’s not like they’re quiet about it, or particularly shy about the specifics. It’s just that you’ve never thought you’d find yourself in the middle of one. They’re the kind of thing rustbloods like to talk in wistful tones in the taverns around the city, like a fond memory of times long past. 

“If you make me shoosh you,” Zillah’s voice curls in your ear, as she draws you into her lap, arms holding you loosely, “I’m going to be pissed. Breathe, Harlow.” 

“Please tell me you’re not going to try and fuck me,” you say, in a tiny voice, holding perfectly still in her grasp. 

Zillah snorts loudly and lets her chin rest on the crown of your head, between your horns. 

“Isn’t fucking the seadwellers scandalous enough for you?” You choke on your own tongue at those words and she snorts again, laughter easy in a way you envy. “No, Harlow, I’m not going to try and fuck you.” 

You forget whatever you were going to retort to that – probably a stupid, smartass thing to say – when the first shriek echoes in the cave. You turn to look, unable to resist the urge, and you regret it instantly. The floor of the cave is a sea of limbs and skin and hair and horns and moans and _sex_. You feel like an intruder, and yet you can’t look away. You press against the body cradling you, unsure of how to feel. And even then, a clinical part of your mind notices the patterns and the ripples in the waves of bodies, the pull and the push and the arch as they touch and kiss and bite and lick and fuck. You swallow hard. 

“You knew it’d end in this,” your tone is accusatory, but the frustrated whining within it undermines the effect. “Why did you bring me along?” 

“So you’d understand, what you’ve done to my people,” Zillah’s voice is a pleased, almost lulling rumble and her body is warm and you can’t shake the feeling you’re using her like a shield to stand between you and the rest of the rustbloods. “This is what they are, Harlow. Feral, vicious, unrelenting, proud.” Her voice goes soft. “ _Whole_.” 

Slowly, very slowly, as you run your eyes from one troll to the next, you start seeing something else. You notice the expressions on their faces and the way they hold each other and the ease with which they shift from tender to rough and tender again. It’s not flushed or black, but something else entirely. Something that makes you feel small and insignificant, and for an infinitely long instant, you yearn to join them and melt into them and _belong_ to them. 

“They’re beautiful,” you breathe, after what feels like eternity, lax in Zillah’s embrace. 

“They are,” she agrees, her sigh tickling your forehead. And then she pulls back, nudging you so you can actually see her face. “I don’t pretend to know what the fuck is wrong with you, and I don’t know what to tell you to make it better. But I’m not about to let you forget, Prophet, _this_ is what you’ve done.” 

You bow your head to her, humbled by the words, the implications and the honest gratitude in her voice. You knew few trolls to rival her in pride, and you know her pride is more than justified. You let yourself relax against her again. The gesture itself should be pale, you think, except it’s not, because it’s Zillah. You feel you’ve earned a grain of understanding, when it comes to how rustbloods do things. 

“Shouldn’t you be there?” You tilt your head up at her, blinking as the light of dawn filters through the mouth of the cave. No one seems to care. “With them?” 

“Nah, not this time,” she shakes her head slowly, “sometimes one should just watch.” And then something very strange happens, as her expression turns pensive for a second. Then she snorts. “Fuck Linnea, she’s rubbing off on me.” 

You chuckle wryly and refuse to comment. Even if you weren’t currently in the middle of the predicament you are, it would still not be your place to comment. So you relax against the larger troll, breathing falling into step with hers, as you watch the cave writhe with pleasure and euphoria. You commit everything to memory, with the same care as you once did your prophecies, no longer disturbed or uncomfortable. And you can’t help your own thoughts, circling back to your current grief. 

“I’m not,” you find yourself saying, studiously not looking at Zillah in the eye, “for the record.” 

“You’re not what?” 

“Fucking the seadwellers,” you are rather proud of yourself, for not stumbling on the words. It seems that when your dreams left you, so did most of your speech skills. It’s a little infuriating. “I’m not.” 

“But you might as well be.” 

You snort. 

“Not really,” you run a hand through your hair, taking a moment to contemplate the fact you’re actually having a dangerously pale moment with _Zillah_ , while the entirety of the rustblood nation indulges in an orgy all around you. One of these days, you’re really going to quit life all together, it just keeps getting _weirder_. “I like to avoid giving trolls reasons to riot.” 

“You don’t know they would,” she says, and then actually flicks your left horn, as if chastising a small child. 

You assure yourself you did not squawk in protest, and opt instead to glower at her. 

“Oh, so you would not judge me if I did?” You know Zillah, you know her love of tradition and order and the fact that for all rustbloods can be chaotic and restless, they’re deeply conservative at heart. 

And then Zillah, because she’s Zillah and she enjoys shattering your mind into itty bitty pieces, arches an eyebrow at you and refuses to rise to the bait. 

“Would you make it a law?” 

That is so far outside the realm of acceptable reactions to your question that you actually take a moment just to stare at her. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“Would you make it a law?” She smirks at you, knowingly, and this not-pale moment you’re having is quickly turning sour. “Would you not only break the taboo, but make it so that everyone _had_ to?” 

“Are you out of your fucking mind? Of course not!” You are grateful for the moaning and shrieking and crying out all around you, because it makes your outburst a little less noticeable. You hiss at her. “What part of _not wanting riots_ did you miss?” 

“So if you’re not going to tell me who I should fuck, why should _I_ tell _you_ who you should fuck?” 

You open your mouth to retort, and find instead that you can’t decide which side of _wrong_ you need to tackle first. So you growl instead. 

“It’s more complicated than that,” you say finally, unable to remove the layer of sullenness from your tone. 

“I’m sure it is,” she purrs, and you know she’s mocking you with every fiber of her being. 

You shift again, finding a comfortable spot as you resume watching the rustbloods roll around their own genetic material, and _wow_ , this got messy real fast, didn’t it. And they’re still going, too, which you’re not sure you should be impressed by or worried about. You’re no expert on the subject, but you’re pretty sure at some point people actually, well, _stop_. 

“So,” you say after a moment, “just how long are they going to be at it?” 

You can almost feel Zillah grin; it makes your hair stand on end. 

“Oh, probably another night or two.” In the distance, you hear someone shrieking again. “No more than a week, for sure.” 

“Nonstop,” you deadpan. 

“Nonstop,” she nods, not bothering to hide the fact she’s laughing at you. 

You feel your left eyelid twitch. 

“Well, that’s just fucking _perfect_ , isn’t it?” 

She cackles at you, shamelessly. 

“ _Fucking_ ’s the right word.” 

** ʆ **

You do not explain your absence from the city nor your trip with the rustbloods nor your sour mood for the next few nights. You glower and glare and dead-eye anyone who asks until they stop asking, and make it a point to not be left alone with either Alilah or Alston at any point. They notice this, of course, and the looks they keep giving you let you know that you will be in unspeakable amounts of trouble once they manage to corner you. So you don’t let that happen. You go out on patrols with Spyros and Phylis, or hide in Linnea’s library or sit in a corner of Zillah’s forge or go out drinking with Ulyses or take walks with Iggy through the forest. Hell, you endure Tyrell’s company willingly. To be fair, it’s more like Tyrell tolerates your company enough that he doesn’t outright kick you out or tell you to get lost, but the point still stands. 

It’s not like you don’t understand the greenblood, it’s just that you don’t _like_ him. You can’t even feel validated in your dislike, because the greenblood doesn’t really like anyone outside the group of psychics he still lords over, so it’s not even like it’s mutual. Knowing who he is and what he’s done and what has been done to him, it does explain every little nuance of his attitude towards life in general. But it doesn’t excuse it, nor does it make it any more pleasant. You and Alston have known him the longest, having sought him first among the trolls that would become the Council. And you’ve never forgotten the fact the asshole threatened to scalp you and then rip out your spine to make a xylophone out of it, either. But he remains an uncomfortable riddle you’ve never been able to solve. You’ve spent considerable time in his presence, but unlike the other members of the Council, he’s never opened up to you, never loosened up a little. He’s always serious and stern and taciturn, working to get things done and sneering in contempt at anything he judges foolish, which is pretty much everything. 

But, if nothing else, at least no one will look for you here. Most trolls know better than to irritate Tyrell, leaving him to his own devices as he goes around maintaining the city’s decorations. His reputation precedes him; about his temper, his limited patience and the group of psychics always with him, waiting to do his will. You suppose it’s not surprising the greenblood psychics, the first who joined you all those sweeps ago, remain as loyal as ever to him. They are the only creatures Tyrell has ever shown any measure of kindness to. And though their talents may pale in comparison to Alston’s, on a scale of sheer power, they have control and training the seadweller is too inconsistent to achieve. They are not, as a whole, someone any self-respecting troll would want to irritate for no reason, considering Tyrell’s extremely few qualms about culling anyone who he deems a disgrace. 

You bite on a fruit, watching them work under Tyrell’s careful instruction. They are decorating a large slab of smooth stone they just placed on the inside of the thick wall circling the city, carefully using their powers to carve a familiar wheel of designs on it with painstaking precision. Tyrell watches them from the ground, casually giving orders and consulting the original blueprints of the design. Other trolls milling about stop and watch for a while, as the rock explodes in controlled bursts here and there, slowly revealing the final product. The crowd changes periodically, as they remember they have other things to do, and none seem to pay you any mind, sitting where you are, on a pile of rumble further down the wall. 

The design is nearly completed, easily six times your height in diameter, when a rock flies out from the crowd, hitting one of the psychics in the back of the head. 

The man cries out, letting himself fall in surprise, but before he can touch the ground, there’s a whistle as a knife flies through the air, and a sharp cry as it hits its target within the crowd. Every troll in the street stops breathing, yourself included, at the molten wrath making Tyrell’s eyes all but glow. He needs not turn back to see the other greenbloods tending to their companion, having prevented his fall with their own powers. The crowd gives a step back as Tyrell advances on them, parting and leaving a lone indigoblood in the center of the heavy silence. He clutches his shoulder, fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of Tyrell’s knife. 

“Explain yourself,” the greenblood says, voice terrifying pleasant, as a casual flick of his wrist delivers a second knife to his hand. 

“He raped my moirail!” The indigoblood cries out, snarling out with pure disgust. “He used his powers on her and he raped her!” 

The silence becomes, if possible, more deadly. Blood flees your face as you stand up and try to approach the scene. This has the potential to get ugly, really, really quickly. But as you step closer, Tyrell raises a hand in your direction, halting you without even bothering to look at you. Now that you have been acknowledged, however tacitly, you hear the soft murmurs spread through the crowd as all eyes fix on you two. Whatever happens next, it will be seen as an official decision endorsed by the Council. You manage not to grind your teeth, but only barely. 

“Child,” Tyrell says, turning to look at the terrified greenbloods cradling the injured man. “Did you do as he says?” 

You’re fairly certain you’re not the only one who hears the sharp edge in that question, as once more the silence spreads, expectant. The injured greenblood, however, growls at the words, baring his teeth and stumbling back on his feet. There’s blood running down the side of his neck, from where the rock hit him, and his eyes are close to glowing, threatening. 

“I did not,” he snarls, volts of green arching along his arms and between his horns. He swallows hard, as if gathering courage. “What fool would rape their own _matesprit_?” 

Well then. 

You carefully sidestep the bubble of panic in your gut and instead turn your eyes to the crowd, carefully gauging their reaction. You expect disgust and rage and violence, but most expressions are too full of shock to read any other emotion in them. And then the indigoblood scrambles forward, all but frothing in the mouth. 

“Liar!” Tyrell stops him just as swiftly, tripping him forward and snapping his arm back, forcing him to his knees and casually pressing the tip of the knife to the back of his neck. Though he stops struggling, the indigoblood doesn’t stop screaming. “He used his powers to scramble her goddamn pan and then he fucking raped her! I saw them! I’m going to cull you, you fucking bastard, I’m going to—“ 

“How _dare_ you, Darkfog!” Another, very familiar indigoblood breaks through the crowd, and you barely suppress a groan when you realize Linnea is with her. The woman’s eyes are narrowed to slits, her hands shaking with fury. “How dare you call yourself my moirail when you shame me like this in public! How dare you accuse my matesprit of such a hideous thing?” 

You swallow hard at the expression on Linnea’s face; the indigoblood with her is one of her personal attendants, one of the recordkeeper children she’s raised and cared for ever since _before_ the meteors destroyed their home. You can’t really think of a way this situation could get any more dangerous or volatile. 

“Hear that?” The indigoblood in Tyrell’s grasp, Darkfog, struggles again, somewhere between desperate and deranged. “He’s poisoned her mind!” 

The murmurs in the crowd become louder as Linnea snarls at him, using her height to her advantage and looming threateningly. 

“That’s _enough_.” You watch with mild satisfaction as everyone flinches from the sharpness of your voice. You take a moment to glower around you, ignoring the way blood is rushing franticly through your veins and echoing in your ears. “Scholar, what says you about all this?” 

Linnea’s lips thin into a flat line as she folds her arms over her chest. 

“The Scribe came to me, seeking advice,” she gives the crowd a warning look, hushing the murmurs again, “when her friendship with the Zealous took a decided flushed tint.” There’s a significant pause as her expressions darkens. “As well as the fact her moirail, Darkfog here, reacted violently to her attempts to explain herself.” 

“So not only did you assault one of my children, _in front of me_ ,” Tyrell hisses at Darkfog, twisting his arm painfully, “you are the epitome of a shitty moirail as well.” 

“I’ve never hurt her, my Lord,” the Zealous looks at Tyrell imploringly, then turns to you and finally to Linnea. “I swear, my Lady, I’ve never—“ 

“He’s never hurt me,” the Scribe insists, taking a step towards him and then stopping. Then she fixes Darkfog with a vicious glare, holding herself up in supreme dignity. “Unlike other quadrantmates I could _name_.” 

The unspoken, however, remains heavy in the air. But even if he didn’t rape her, he’s still a greenblood and she’s an indigoblood. And it’s taboo, above all taboo, to have a concupiscent quadrant with someone outside your own caste. You all know this, of course. And you above them all understand. You know there will be consequences to this, either way, that there will be talk and rumors and unrest. No matter what you say, the damage is done, and all you can do now is try to minimize it, to control it somehow. 

“It’s still a crime,” Darkfog hisses smugly, gasping as Tyrell further twists his arm. 

You look down at the hateful look on the indigoblood’s face, the embodiment of everything that keeps you from sorting out your goddamn quadrant grid. You look at Tyrell’s narrowed eyes, bloodlust curling in them. He takes personal offense to any attempt to harm his children, and he will not simply let this _go_. You look at Linnea’s grim expression, cautious but outraged at the same time. Though she’s raised as a leader of her people, she has always favored her recordkeeper children the most, and for her, too, this is personal. You look at the crowd, which has easily triplicated in size since the incident began, more and more trolls coming to see what you’ll say. Waiting. _Judging_. 

And then you look at the Zealous and the Scribe, nervous and afraid, every line in their bodies speaking of longing to touch. You wonder if there isn’t a little of serendipity to it, as well, but does it matter? Does any of this matter? 

“Actually,” you say, swallowing hard and keeping your voice steady on force of sheer will and sweeps of practice. You don’t flinch when all eyes turn to you, the weight of so many stares threatening to make your spine bend. “It is not.” You refuse to bend, you refuse to yield. It terrifies you and you’re panicking under the surface, but you refuse to stand back. You tilt your chin up, remembering the lessons you’ve learned throughout your journey. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know what you’re doing, so long as no one else can tell. “To call it a crime would imply there is a law against it. There is no such law in the city.” 

You ignore everything, forcing yourself to not see the reactions your words spark, and instead cling to the words themselves. 

“It’s called common fucking sense,” Darkfog snaps at you, writhing in Tyrell’s hold. “It’s fucking _natural law!_ ” 

You _know_ that. Only sweeps and sweeps standing before a crowd and pretending to be a leader keep you from swallowing hard even if your throat feels parched. Before you can improvise the most scathing remark you’ve ever uttered, Tyrell bends that arm with a short, shark jerk and the sound of cracking bone echoes with enough finality to make reality of the situation sink in on everyone present. Darkfog makes a tiny, choked noise, eyes wide and suddenly terrified, as if he’s finally remembering who he has been shouting at. 

You’re not trolls, not you or Tyrell or Linnea. You’re the fucking _Council_. 

“Do you know what this is?” Tyrell hisses at him, pressing his wrist up the terrified indigoblood’s face. The bracelet gleams almost ominously. “This,” and then Tyrell lets Darkfog go, shoving him hard onto the ground and addressing the crowd itself, “means that trollkind, as a whole, told natural law to go fuck itself, because natural fucking law said we were supposed to go _extinct_.” The crowd shifts uneasily, conflicted. He raises his arm, as if to make sure trolls can see the golden band. “This is the brand I carry, because I stood in your name. So does every member of the Pact.” He bares his teeth at them and the effect could not have been more intimidating if he had any of the sparks and light effects of a full-fledged psychic. “In the future, you will all take care to not _disgrace_ me, or any other of your _betters_ , by forcing me to interfere in a private matter like this.” 

You wish you could wince at that particular choice of wording, but you can’t afford to, right now, so you don’t. Betters is not the word you would have used to describe yourself or any other member of the… the Pact, as Tyrell has just named you. _Betters_ puts yet another wall between you and the trolls you rule over. You’re not _better_ , you’re just the tools providence used to carry out fate. But it’s been done, now, so you do the only thing you can: you roll with it. 

“I believe we are done here, then,” you say, staring pointedly at the crowd and after a second, they start to disband. 

“No,” Tyrell says, “not just yet.” His voice is serpentine in a way he only indulges when he’s about to cull someone. The smile on his face is nothing short of day terror inducing. “There is no law about interblood relationships, of course, but there is a law against falsely accusing someone of a crime.” This time you don’t bother to stop yourself from swallowing hard, and instead find Linnea’s eyes. There’s something ugly in her look, that lets you know she’s not about to step in to defend her fellow indigoblood. “There is also the thing about _assaulting one of my children in my presence_.” 

That is, of course, the real reason Darkfog is about to die, and Tyrell will not waste a chance to remind anyone watching that one simply does _not_ touch his children. Darkfog seems to realize it, scrambling back as he stares at Tyrell in horror. He looks about, but not even his moirail – ex-moirail? – seems at all concerned with his face. 

“No, please,” he begs, as Tyrell sinks a hand into his hair. “I thought—“ 

“You thought wrong,” the greenblood says with callous finality, and slits his throat with a quick flick of his wrist. 

You don’t look away, even as Tyrell lets the corpse fall to the ground into a puddle of its own blood. You stare at the blood slowly spreading and turning the dirt into mud, feeling a little empty. If you’d dreamed this, you would have justified this death as a necessity, an unavoidable consequence of the colossal declaration you just made. But without the dreams, without the _certainty_ , you feel an acute sense of responsibility for this. You might have as well done it with your own hands. In a way, you are grateful for the novelty of guilt: you prefer to dwell on that, than the implications of the status quo you just abolished in thirty words or less. 

You think very hard about that guilt, when you redouble your efforts to keep a certain pair of seadwellers out of your hair. 

** ʆ **

"You seem lost, Dreamer." 

You look up to see Dhraid approaching, as breathtaking a sight as always. Today, she’s wearing an elaborate confection in teal and purple, with delicate embroidery in gold. Her steps are light as she approaches you, smiling wanly. You mirror the smile, and it’s small and jaded and tired, but it’s entirely genuine. You can’t lie to Dhraid, you like her too much for that. Next to Alston, she is perhaps the closest friend you have, someone whose council and advice you always turn to in your time of need. She has earned your respect and also your affection, with a startling ease that you can’t quite explain. Perhaps it is because on some level, you two _get_ each other, without the insufferable complications of any kind of romantic inclination. She’s fun and sharp and witty and longwinded, and absolutely gorgeous, of course, but you’ve never harbored a single romantic thought about her, in any quadrant. You’re fairly certain she feels the same about you; well, except for the absolutely gorgeous bit. She thinks you could stand to eat some more and be less of a scrawny little shit, and maybe wear something that doesn’t make you look like a political office incarnated. You like Dhraid. You like Dhraid _a lot_. 

"I... seem to be, yes," you admit, standing up as she approaches, casually fanning herself with a smaller, less threatening fan than her usual ones. 

She hums a little, reaching to hook her free arm with yours and tacitly tugging you along to walk with her. You must look quite the pair, you think. You, with your sparse robes in slate and lime, a color you’ve only begun to familiarize yourself with again, after spending all those sweeps before the foundation of the city wearing solid, anonymous black. And her, the peak of glamorous elegance, of course, always turning heads, always reminding the world she’s here and she’s not to be ignored. You fall into step with ease as she takes the lead, guiding you towards one of the various gardens Iggy tends to around the city. The night is pleasantly warm, though there is a hint of clouds in the sky that herald rain to come, and the moons are shinning peacefully on opposite corners of the sky. It’s a good night for a walk, you suppose. 

"I know best of them,” she tells you, voice quiet and expression wry, “what being lost feels like.” She gives you a poignant look. “You know this." 

Absently, you rub her wrist, now clad in a spiral of gold and the delicate fabric of her sleeve. As it should be. 

"I do know, yes.” And you banish the stolen memories of irons and dirtfloor cells, so you can offer a wry smile in return. “You swore me to silence, Dhraid, but I do know." 

You had been wholly unprepared to handle her, when you finally met her. You spent entire perigees dreaming of despair and helpless rage, of a young girl locked up in a gilded cage, tracing her own sign on the floor, over and over again, so as to not forget it. You had been young, then. Inexperienced. After meeting Tyrell, you had built up a cache of pity that went to waste when you actually met her. She was not broken, nor in need of mending or soothing. What you met was a graceful, dignified leader, beloved of her people and of anyone who met her, wise and determined to see her people strive on and survive. Tyrell, being Tyrell, had tried to insult her, belittle her without knowing a thing about her struggles or her burdens. She met him head on, refusing to back down, using her words to strike with such precision that it left the greenblood reeling and snarling. And then she’d turned to Alston, and that might have been the moment you’d decided you were going to be friends with her, because anyone that could leave the arrogant seadweller tonguetied as effective as she had, was definitely someone you wanted to be liked by. 

"I hated you for that, you know.” She chuckles lightly at that, as if remembering a fond memory. “For knowing that about me." 

You’re fairly certain she’s ensured you’re the only living creature who knows that the sign and title she claims as her own are not, in fact, _hers_ . And yet, somehow, she has made them hers anyway, bending them to her liking into something worthy of her. They do not define her, anymore her past does. Only Dhraid is allowed to define who Dhraid is, and even in the middle of your little existential crisis, you understand the strength necessary to make it so. You admire her for it, but without envy. Her strength is her own, made by her own hand and conquered by her own struggles. You understand your own strength must be made the same way, founded on your merit. 

"I’ve kept my word,” you say, unnecessarily. 

You think of the look on Alston’s face when you refused to tell him anything about her, the irritation at the thought you might have a secret you wouldn’t share with him. Your eyes slide half-mast at the memory of such a spectacular fight. Dhraid pats your arm, as if reading your thoughts, and gives you a solemn nod. 

"I know." 

"I'm sorry, though,” you shrug lightly, “that I had to wound you so, but--" 

Although perhaps wound is clumsy wordchoice. Enrage would be a more fitting description of what your misguided attempts to comfort her had caused. You had revealed the extent of your dreams to her, foolishly thinking you might sway her to your side if you offered to take some of her burden from her. Instead, you’d only insulted her dignity and offended her deeply, to the point you still consider yourself lucky because she didn’t slit your throat on the spot. 

"You did what you had to, Dreamer.” A small pause. “Harlow. I wouldn't have joined you, if you hadn't." 

"You are my friend, though.” Your smile widens as she chuckles lightly. “I consider you as such, and it’s my prerogative to regret what I had to do." 

She leads you through the winding path, steps light as the hem of her dress trails the floor, not quite brushing it. There’s something in the way she holds herself that makes it seem she’s not walking, but gliding over the ground, not really touching it. She’s an expert in making herself stand just out of reach, out of hand. 

"I was not your friend then." 

You share an amused, knowing look. 

"No, you were not." 

But once you realized the gravity of your mistake, you began working on repairing it, so you could be. It had taken sweeps upon sweeps to earn her forgiveness, and it wasn’t until Linnea joined you, that some of the scorn worn off enough for her to look at you with something other than disdain. 

"I am now.” It warms you, to hear pride in her voice. If Alston has always been the whip pushing you forward, needling you on to follow your dreams, Dhraid easily became the model of dignity and aplomb you strove for. You still think you’ll never be half as competent at this whole leadership business as she is, but she too keeps you trying your best. “You have use of my name and knowledge of _my_ title and sign, Harlow. After all this time, you are a dear friend to me." 

There’s a simple bench beneath a large tree, and you let go of her as she sits down gracefully, taking a moment to arrange the folds of her skirts to fall properly. 

"And that is an honor I value greatly," you say, as you take a seat next to her, folding your legs up under you. 

She gives you a look at that, and you wonder if this conversation will take a detour to discuss your habit to curl up on any surface you sit on, and how undignified and small the posture makes you look. In the end, however, she merely shakes her head and unfolds her fan, resting one hand on her lap and lazily fanning herself. She seems content to simply enjoy the view of the garden for the time being, so you too run your eyes along the greenery around you. Iggy has a strange fancy for design, when it comes to these places, carefully growing his plants in odd patterns that not quite mimic the wildness. They’re peaceful enough, though, good to walk and think and maybe panic a little, to yourself. 

“Quite the mess, wasn’t it,” Dhraid says suddenly, looking up at the canopy above your heads. “With Tyrell and Linnea’s children. Caused quite the stir, did it not?” You make a small sound in the back of your throat, half a strangled laugh, half a terrified whimper. Dhraid, however, does not laugh. "May I advise you then, as a friend?" 

You swallow hard. 

"Of course." 

Carefully, purposely enough that you can’t but pay attention to the motion, Dhraid folds up her fan, wrapping her fingers around it and resting it on her lap. She gives you a piercing look, perceptive, but not unkind. 

"You are lost, prophet, because you have run out of prophecies.” There’s something infinitely sad in her voice, something painfully kind. She shakes her head, causing the chains in her horns to click and jingle. “And you will continue to be lost, so long as you keep trying to find more. The more you cling to what used to be, the harder you’ll find adjusting to what it is now. Did you not pledge yourself to change and moving forward?” 

"You are not the first to tell me this," you laugh, a little shaky, a little unsure, giving her a bit of a hopeless look. 

"Perhaps not, but I am the fairest to do so, aren't I?” She snaps the fan open again, waving her hand in a dismissive fashion. It’s exaggerated and ridiculous and her words don’t help any. “And I am your beloved friend. So you will listen to me, where you did not the others." You laugh at that, helplessly, and don’t really resist the soft tug on your robes, as you lean in to gently bump your shoulder with hers. “What is this about, Harlow, really?” 

You let out a shuddering breath. 

“Fear, mostly,” you admit quietly. “Maybe a little guilt. But mostly just fear.” 

Dhraid’s laugh is wry. 

“Isn’t it always?” 

Were it anyone else, the words would come off as condescending. But from Dhraid they’re only a tired truth you like to ignore as often as possible. You can’t keep procrastinating this forever, though. You know what you have to do, but you still can’t quite bring yourself to do it. You need to stop running away from the inevitable, you just wish you knew what the inevitable actually is, in this case. It will take you a long time, you think, to stop trying to reach onto a prophecy to justify your actions, but if you want any hope of surviving this mess you’re in, you’ll have to. 

You _have_ to. 

** ʆ **

You find Alilah with the group of trolls working on the final repairs on the outer wall of the city. You take a moment to watch her haul the thick rope along with the other workers, slowly raising a rock about the size of a small hive high up in the air. You take _another_ moment to wonder how exactly did the seadweller find herself entangled with the repairs and at what point she decided to actively help, before you remember that Alilah does as Alilah wants, and you’re probably better off not knowing anyway. You tilt your head as they move in sync, a loud, strangled of ‘ _haul!_ ’ punctuating every pull as the rock slowly ascends. You’re pretty certain Alilah could raise it all on her own, given her freakish, seadweller strength, so the novelty of her cooperating with other trolls strikes you as fascinating. She’s always doing that, you know. Asking questions and getting into people’s business and somehow worming her way into their lives in strange ways. You wonder if the trolls struggling to keep up with her, joining their voice to hers, have any idea who she really is. Oddly, you wonder if they’d actually _care,_ even if they knew. 

“…hello,” you say, a bit dumbly, a little while later, once the rock is safely placed in the main structure of the wall and all the hauling trolls have scattered around to find something to drink. 

Alilah stares at you for a long moment, standing tall and proud as the arch of her horns. Then she stalks towards you, frown dipping her eyebrows downward as she keeps her eyes pinned on you, as if expecting you to take off or vanish without leaving a trace behind. You welcome the wave of guilt, as you admit you have been perhaps rather childish about the whole affair. 

“I am vexed at you,” she announces after a moment, voice solemn and expression grim. You have the decency to flinch at that. “I am _extremely_ vexed at you right now.” 

It should be funny, the careful way she enunciates the words, but it’s not because she means every one of them. Alilah always means what she says, to the point you wonder if she’s actually capable of lying. You suppose at some point she should learn how, if nothing else because life without the comfort of a lie seems like a rather frightening prospect, and also because she needs to learn that not all that is said to her is truth. You think she might have grasped that bit already, what with her penchant to stick her nose on other people’s business, but you can never be really sure, when it comes to Alilah. Then again, you’ve yet to meet a troll with enough of a spine to lie when confronted by those inquisitive fuchsia eyes. 

You offer her a small, helpless shrug. 

“I know,” you say, rather than _I’m sorry_ , because that would only open a can of worms you are not quite certain you could deal with while you have an audience. 

And you do have an audience, of course, with trolls peering curiously after her bold declaration. Some of them are from the group of workers Alilah had been helping. Others were just going about their business and seemed attracted by the sound of a potential quarrel between members of the Council. Trolls do so love gossip, after all. 

“Well?” Alilah demands, arms folded over her chest and jaw set as if preparing for battle. 

“I’ve made up my mind,” you say, shrugging again as you spread your arms a little, palms facing her. You pause a moment, significantly. “On both accounts.” 

There’s a long pause. 

“Even now,” she says, frowning deeply, “you _vex_ me.” 

That is not, if one ought to be frank, the reaction you would have hoped for, but in all honestly, you knew it was very likely. You have not been kind to her, since waking up from your bizarre transformation at the hands of the Guardian. You have not been kind to her for a very long time, and truth be told, you deserve her scorn. But you take heart in the fact she sounds annoyed, rather than flat out angry, and her frustration seems less vicious and more hurt. Quietly, you add that to the growing list of guilts you’ve collected thus far, and wonder if you’ll soon become a connoisseur. You swallow hard. 

“Dare I ask why?” And you know instantly that’s the wrong thing to say, given the severe look she gives you, which clearly states she thinks you’re a hopeless moron. You flinch. 

“Because,” Alilah says, voice charged with an unpleasant undertone, as if she’s speaking to a particularly dimwitted grub, “you are making me _choose_ between my quadrants.” You blink at that, surprise clearly written all over your face. She raises a hand to massage her temples, as if further insulted by your perceived idiocy. “You and I have much to talk about, but it will have to wait.” 

“Why?” And you feel proud of yourself, because you manage not to sound petulant. Not much, anyway. 

“ _Because_ , you stupid, stupid fool, as much as I wish to see this settled between us,” she bares her teeth at you, “you’ve managed to _hurt_ my moirail’s feelings.” 

You stare at her, expression blank. Out of all the possible things she could have told you, you expected _this_ the least. You blink, trying to process the weight behind those words. In all the sweeps you’ve known Alston, you’ve never even begun to contemplate the notion of his feelings being _hurt_. You’ve spent sweeps perfecting the art of driving each other into frothing rage, of course, and you’ve always known which nerve to strike to get the precise reaction you want. But you hate each other – and you can, at long last, own up to it without having to _qualify_ it – you hate each other so much it’s like you were hatched for that explicit purpose. But nothing in all _that_ has ever had anything to do with feelings. With hurt feelings, at least. 

“Spit has feelings?” You say, half incredulously, half trying to defuse tension with a joke. 

Alilah does not laugh. Alilah glares at you hard enough you’re sincerely surprised you didn’t spontaneously burst into flame, and then points in the direction of the house of the Ten with an imperious, forceful gesture. 

“ _Go_ ,” she hisses at you, “or so help me Mother, I’ll rip out your spine and shove it down your throat.” 

You take that as your subtle cue to leave. 

“Going,” you croak, backing away slowly, hands raised in a half-hearted placating manner. 

You begin to fathom the idea that you might have perhaps royally screwed up somewhere along the line. You wince and casually flee the scene, trying not to look like you’re fleeing, despite a burning need to look over your shoulder and make sure Alilah is not about to throw a culling fork at your back. 

She doesn’t, but you can’t help but think you’d deserve it. 

** ʆ **

Finding Alston proves to be a little harder than anticipated. 

You realize, with a touch of embarrassment, that perhaps it was not your skill that kept you out of reach of the seadwellers for so long, but rather a combined effort on their part to mimic your unwillingness to engage them. You look for Alston in all the usual places: his room, his favorite spots along the beach, the two tiny taverns that sell the fermented fruit alcohol he likes so much. In a moment of inspiration, you head towards the stables, but the only one there is a stocky blueblood who chatters incessantly at you for nearly two hours before you manage to shake him off. Tired after spending the night running in circles, you decide to head back home only to find the seadweller napping in your room. You stare for a moment, before quietly closing the door behind you and loudly clearing your throat. Alston, in true Alston fashion, startles awake and nearly falls off the rest slab. You can’t help but smirk a little, though it dies when you meet his eyes and he scowls at you. 

“I was just leaving anyway,” he mutters sullenly, grabbing a shirt and stomping towards you, clearly expecting you to move out of the way so you don’t interrupt his dramatic exit. 

“Actually,” you say, pressing your back against the door and frowning, “I… wanted to talk to you.” 

“Really now,” Alston sneers, coming to a stop a few steps away and clenching his hands into tight fists. “Because I thought we had nothing to talk about.” There’s a nasty undertone in his voice that, thanks to Alilah’s snide remarks, you realize is actually something other than pure spite. “You’ve made that _abundantly_ clear.” 

“I just—“ 

“You just _what_ , Harlow?” His fin flares open in irritation, the rings in it jiggling. It’s almost doesn’t register, though, because anger makes the seadweller seemingly swell in size and presence. “Grew a fucking spine and decided to at least tell me to my face that you’ll stand up for someone else, but when it comes to me, _fuck that_ , clearly I don’t matter that much?” 

The hissing makes you recoil. 

“That’s not—“ 

“That’s not what? What you meant? What you feel?” He snarls at you, violet volts crackling down his horns. “Well, I’m sorry, your fucking highness, I wouldn’t fucking know since you won’t deign talk to me anymore.” 

“I was trying to make up my mind!” You snap back, pushing yourself off the door and snarling when he steps back. “I needed time to think!” 

“Oh, _of course!_ ” You hate it when he drawls that way, it makes his voice feel like claws raking the inside of your skull. “You had to think! And of course the fucking world can go hang, because his excellency Harlow the Dreamer needs time to think! My bad, I’m sorry, I should have just sat down and waited for you with my thumbs up my fucking ass.” 

“This isn’t about me,” you say, grinding your teeth, but he interrupts you before you can say anything else. 

“And it’s not about _me_ either, right?” It’s not an undertone anymore, it’s just plain bitter hurt in the words and the realization makes your chest ache a little. “It’s _never_ about me.” 

“The city—“ 

“Fuck the goddamn city!” Alston’s voice cracks at the same time a vase cracks and explodes in a shower of shards and violet light. “Fuck them, every. Single. One. Of them. And fuck you and your goddamn need to make everything about them! This is between you and me, it has _always_ been between you and me. Why do you always bring others into it? Why do you just assume we couldn’t have just _hid_ it?” 

You freeze in place and then abruptly feel the fight leave your body as you slump somewhat. 

“Do you think I could have done that?” You ask, voice quiet. “Do you really think,” you go on, raising your voice so he won’t interrupt, “that hating you as much as I do, I could walk out there and _deny_ you?” You bark a short, sharp laugh and it tastes bitter in your mouth. “I hate you too fucking much, Alston, I thought you knew that.” 

There’s a moment of silence after that, and you feel a small, spiteful thrill in the way he seems at loss for words. It doesn’t last long, though. 

“Stop throwing that word around like it means jackshit to you,” he snarls again, and the light show begins anew. 

You take a moment to appreciate how fucking terrifying he looks, glowing and snarling, knowing he has enough power to level a good chunk of the city if he wants to. He could kill you with a thought, literally, and yet you can’t scrape up an ounce of fear. There’s an unwritten rule, when it comes to kismesissitudes, about the dangers of a gap in power and strength, because it’s so easy, sometimes, to lose one’s self into a rivalry. There are countless stories and myths and legends about uneven kismesissitudes ending up in murder, because the violence escalated too far and left the weaker partner behind. There’s something inherently presumptuous in taking on a relationship like yours, a blind faith in the strength and purity of your hatred, that insinuates serendipity. Because you know, in your soul, that Alston will never kill you. He will push and shove and hurt, but only as much as you need it. He always has, and that, you begin to realize, is the problem. 

You have taken his devotion for granted, lost in your own problems and your own doubts. You’ve always known he’d be there, and you forgot you should meet him halfway. When was the last time you snapped at him about his attitude or his drinking or his decision making? When was the last time you stomped your way into his business and told him what a fucking shitty job he was doing? When was the last time you acted like you mean it when you claim to hate him? A very long time, clearly, long before the summoning of the Guardian. You didn’t want to neglect him, though. That much you know for sure. You didn’t want to push him aside, to make him second place, but it’s just the only thing you could _do_. You know it’s unfair, but you don’t know what else you could have done instead. You’re a prophet, for better or for worse; there is nothing higher to you, than prophecy and its fulfillment. If Alston were a limeblood, he’d understand. If Alston were a limeblood, he’d do the same and your hatred would not suffer for it. But if Alston were a limeblood, he wouldn’t be _Alston_ , and you wouldn’t hate him. 

“I do mean it,” you shake your head, trying to clear it a little. Frustration will not make this easier, and as much as you’d want to either walk away or just… let it be, you know you should probably talk about it. The harder something is, the more necessary. Or so your journey has taught you. “You know that.” 

“I know I’m old,” he says abruptly, the glow dying out and letting you see his narrowed eyes. He stands a little straighter, shoulders squaring off with the forgotten ease of royalty. “I’m really fucking old and a sweep or two seems like nothing to me, now, but do you even _realize_ how long we’ve been playing this game?” 

“Fifty sweeps, however long we spent molting and then almost a full perigee now,” you reply, almost without thought. He seems a little taken aback again. Something hideous twists in your gut, trying to become a thought. You resist it. “You think I’ve forgotten? I remember the night I found you, you stupid fucking moron. I remember the fact you nearly bit two fingers off my hand when I tried to clean your face, and that the scars took three molts before they vanished. I remember the fights and the night my mother threatened to strangle us both if we didn’t stop. I remember the day we actually _talked_ and then decided to stop fighting. I remember _us_ , Alston, not just the meteors and the prophecy.” 

“Mighty convenient for you, though,” he mutters, folding his arms over his chest and causing the gills on his neck and his sides to flare a little in irritation. “That _us_ happens to be a nice corollary to your fucking prophecy.” 

“The fucking prophecy,” you growl, voice turning venomous, “is my fucking _life_. And it’s the only fucking reason we’re both here. Let me remind you that you’d have bled your stupid empty head dry on that shore, without ‘my fucking prophecy’.” 

“All hail the prophecy,” he deadpan, rolling his eyes at you. “Is that why you’re here? Did you fall asleep thinking and dreamed this conversation? Oh, spoil it for me, just this once. Are we gonna fuck or are you going to try and talk me into another fucking fifty sweeps of enforced celibacy? Because for the record, just my fingers isn’t going to carry me for another fucking half century of this shit.” 

The sound you make is the perfect mix of a feral snarl and a hysterical cackle. It’s such a fucking _Alston_ thing to say: crude, lewd, undignified. You feel your face heat up and you hate it. You hate _him_. Every single solitary thing he does and says is like a personal insult sometimes. Every tiny thing captures your attention and won’t leave you alone. And then there’s the fact that he’ll _say_ things like that, unrepentantly sexual and taunting, and the coil of lust in your gut will clench and roll and make it hard to breathe. Yes, just like that. It’s new and terrifying, or perhaps it was always like this, before, and you simply made yourself forget. You can’t decide which option appalls you worse. 

“Must you always be so fucking inappropriate?” You snap, trying – and failing – to hide how flustered he’s left you with that remark. 

"This isn't about what's fucking proper and what isn't," Alston snaps back, closing in on you, stepping into your personal space. You feel your blood heat up as solid, pure black hatred gathers in your gut. "This is about you being too fucking scared of doing anything without your goddamn dreams to hold your hand through it." 

He kisses you before you can snarl out a reply, pressing up against you hard enough to bruise. He's cold. He's cold and slick and you want to wrap yourself around him and let his skin douse the ravenous heat boiling under your skin. You _dig_ your claws into his shoulders, until you the skin part and the blood well up. You taste blood as your teeth clatter against his, tearing at his lips. Fuck, you hate him so much you want to peel the flesh off his bones and wear them around your neck. You want him to slice you open so you can hide him under your skin. You want to break him and make him better and break him again, and _yes_ , god damn it all, you want to fuck him until you can’t stand. 

"You never thought you'd survive your little mission, did you?" Alston hisses into your ear, and you realize the frustrated growl is coming out of your throat. "You thought you'd finish this and you'd die and that'd be _it_." 

He knows. _Of course_ he knows. No one knows you better than he does. No one knows best the weakest corners of your mind, where your fears nest and fester. Of course he fucking knows. And you feel stupid as you realize you were somehow expecting him _not_ to know. You moan when his teeth close over your shoulder, reopening the wound he left there before. Just like then, the rush of blood clouds your mind, and for a very long moment, the terrifying abyss spreads under your feet. You close your eyes as your claws dig in deeper, blood slick against your fingers. 

You leap. 

“Fuck you, Spit.” 

And he laughs, dark and spiteful, making your insides churn in the most pleasant ways. 

“If you’re done being stupid, sure,” you can feel him grinning against your skin, smearing your own blood on it, “been only trying to for the last five decades or so, _asshole_.” 

** ʆ **

Alston snores like a fucking enraged roarbeast. 

Oh, you already _knew_ that, of course. But there’s a significant difference between quasi-theoretical knowledge and actually trying to sleep with the goddamn racket pressed right into your ear. When you shove him off, all the fucker does is roll onto his side, baring his back to you, and go on snoring. Asshole. You sit up with a sigh, resigned to the fact you’re not really going to get much sleep anyway, and take a moment to very quietly whimper to yourself because you currently hurt in places you didn’t even fucking know _could_ hurt. You sit there, covered in welts and blood and _stuff_ – oh god, you’re not thinking about that, you’re _so_ not thinking about that, this whole non-celibacy thing is so fucking gross once all’s said and done – and quietly hate Alston for being fucking Alston and thus incapable of giving a shit about this. You heave another wary sigh and groan a little as you wobble back to your feet to the smaller, adjacent room. Phylis is working on a newfangled thing called plumbing that you honestly don’t think you want to know about. But while she figures out her variables and power sources and all those delightful things she rants about whenever anyone lets her, you’re all too happy to clean yourself with the two large jugs of water in the room, one fresh, one sea water. Sea water, it turns out, is pretty good at getting almost anything off a troll’s skin, and you have a lot of things to take off yours. It also makes your welts and open wounds sting something fierce, but you can deal with it. 

When you come back out, sunlight is leaking through the window, unpleasantly hot, but Alston’s still pretty much where you left him: sprawled in an undignified heap of limbs and snoring like something’s broken in his throat. You roll your eyes a little, side step a very traitorous thought you’re not going to indulge in, and then put some goddamn clothes on. You make a token effort to sneak out of the room, even though you’re pretty sure it’s pointless given what a heavy sleeper the seadweller is, and then navigate the corridors without a second thought, using sweeps upon sweeps of practice to keep your mind pleasantly blank. You’re on your third dish of fruit alcohol when someone drops a hand on your shoulder. 

“Good to see you in good spirits, Harlow,” Iggy says in his placid, empty tones and you nearly choke on your drink in surprise. 

You splutter and cough a little, arching over the table. You might or might not have snorted some of the alcohol straight into your nose which might then explain why your eyes are all watery and you think you might be dying. 

“Why are you awake?” You croak after a moment, when it doesn’t feel like your body itself is trying to murder you. 

“Shouldn’t I be?” And he tilts his head just so, you can’t tell if he’s mocking you or being sincere. 

This is a thing that always happens, as far as Iggy is concerned, because he’s not _stupid_ , not really. He’s not even dense. Most people think so and you let them enjoy their delusion because you know for a fact he’s not, and you wish you didn’t. He’s got better things to do and a higher power to answer to and it’s all so fucking creepy it makes your skin crawl when you think too much about it. The secret to handling Iggy, or at least the closest thing to a method you’ve had, is to not handle Iggy at all. You make an effort to treat him like you’d treat anyone else, snarking and bitching and complaining and threatening to strangle him from time to time. Since he’s perfectly aware of the fact you’d never dare put a hand on him, for no other reason than your continued desire to live, it all works out nicely in the end. So he generally smiles in the face of your worst frustrations and goes right on being himself, because he’s everything he’s supposed to be. 

“I didn’t know you enjoyed roasting yourself in the sun,” you snap a tad sullenly, scowling at your little plate because now it’s empty and you have to go through the whole process of filling it up again. 

“I do not,” he says, calmly taking a seat at your right. “It is mostly why I prefer to stay indoors during the day. A pity, really, I’ve always wished to see the quiet ones during their time of greatest splendor.” There’s a small pause. “Here, let me.” 

He takes the plate from your fingers and goes about preparing another drink with extremely practiced ease. You stare a little. 

“I thought you didn’t drink,” you manage to say, resting your chin in one hand, eyes half lidded. 

“I do not, _wedels_ are not to contaminate themselves that way.” He puts the plate back on your free hand, lips twitching into a small smile. “It’s a rather reprehensible habit you have, Harlow, numbing your mind to ignore your problems.” 

“I don’t have problems,” you snort, taking a small sip that is halfway sweet again. “I never have problems. I have shit to deal with and an incessant voice in the back of my head telling me what to do when it’s not screeching in a flailing panic about everything.” 

“Perhaps you should listen to it,” Iggy muses somewhat dryly, sipping on some water. 

“You’d say that,” you try to glare at him, not entirely successful, “but that’s ‘cause your voices aren’t yours, are they? Mine are mine.” 

“I had thought trolls in general preferred their minds to be home only to themselves,” his expression remains the same, and you get the irrational feeling that he’s just _indulging_ you. 

“Trolls in general are fucking stupid.” You tilt back your little plate, to emphasize your point – though you can’t quite remember what it was. 

“That would include you as well, Harlow.” There’s a hand on your shoulder again, patting it absently, and you try to shrug it off in vain. It’s not so much that you mind the contact, as much as the fact each little pat is pressing the shirt into the open gash on your skin and the blood will crust and when you take off the shirt it’ll hurt like a fucking bitch on fire. “Which is not to say that I object to you embracing the extent of your idiocy as much as I think you aren’t and instead you’re merely trying to excuse it behind a poor mix of bad choices, alcohol and your innate self-loathing.” 

You take a moment to glare at him, long and hard. It’s one of your best glares, really, you’re positively glowering. And he doesn’t even react to it, smile the same subtle curve of lips with just a hint of fangs. He looks so stupid. He always looks so stupid. You don’t know on what universe it is fair that the troll with the single most punchable face in the world is also the one under the protection of what essentially amounts to the whole fucking _planet_. 

“You’re an asshole, did you know you’re an asshole? Because you’re a fucking asshole,” you snarl a little at him, even as he puts another full plate into your hand. 

“And why is that?” He asks, utterly unruffled by the accusation, mimicking your posture. 

“Do you ever subject anyone else to that kind of verbal diarrhea?” Irrationally, you think of Alston, and you think you’d much rather be drinking with him than with Iggy, even if the whole point of you drinking right now is because you don’t really want to think too hard about what you just spent hours doing with Alston. Oh fuck. You focus on Iggy, trying to blank your mind again. “Because it’s a fucking privilege I could do without.” 

“You listen,” Iggy muses, and finally drops his hand from your shoulder. “Not nearly as well or as often as you should, but you do listen.” His lips twitch into an almost smirk. “I dislike talking to things that refuse to listen.” 

There’s something hilarious in having a troll that has deep, philosophical conversations with fucking shrubbery telling you that, so you laugh. You cackle, really, hard and loud and a little hysterical. And then somehow you’re on your back on the floor, staring at the ceiling and the walls that kept twirling in circles all around you. 

“This is my life,” you mutter, somewhat despondently, content to let your limbs fall where they will. 

“Which is solely the result of your choices, yes,” Iggy adds, rather unhelpfully, in the most helpful of tones. “Perhaps you should have indeed turned into the savior of lemmings instead. Perhaps you would not feel the need the drink yourself stupid then.” 

You crack up again, laughter slightly off-pitch, and content yourself with trying to kick Iggy’s stool from under him. You fail miserably, but you’re drunk stupid so it’s okay. You just laugh some more. You’re blessedly drunk enough that when you realize Ulyses has entered your field of vision you only blink. He blinks back at you, bent at the waist so he can inspect the monumental mess you are. 

“Shit, it’s gonna be an effort to catch up with you,” he says, offering a hand to pull you back upright. “Why don’t I ever get invited to these parties? Harlow, you’re the shittiest friend.” 

You nearly topple him down, but after some careful pulling and pushing and cackling, you two end up at the table again. Iggy serves Ulyses a drink and casually slaps your hand away when you try to take it for yourself. You whine. 

“So,” the blueblood asks after a moment, “what are we getting drunk for?” 

“I’m not,” Iggy says, while you try to put thoughts into words and words into sounds that sound like words. 

“One day!” Ulyses says, obnoxiously chipper, grinning with altogether too much confidence. “We’ll teach you to enjoy the pleasures of the world yet, Iggy.” 

“Mmm,” the brownblood hums, smiling and not even bothering to rebuke that. 

You try to think about Iggy drunk. You shudder so hard at the mental image you nearly fall off the stool again. 

“My entire life is a disaster in the making,” you announce, staring intently at the wall across the room. 

Ulyses laughs and chugs back his drink with unshakable aplomb. 

“I think that’s a requirement,” he offers, also patting your shoulder, and you can’t for the life of you remember why you’re supposed to shrug that off. He doesn’t do it for long, though, pulling back his hand and giving you a concerned look. Oh right, the bleeding and the welts. You’d forgotten about that. “Went all out on the whole caliginous thing, didn’t you.” 

“Caleginous. Caligeenos. Fuck. Ca-li-gi-nous.” You scowl as you try to force yourself to pronounce properly. “What does that even mean, anyway? It’s a stupid word.” 

“I don’t know, I think it’s dignified,” and it’s so ridiculous, to see Ulyses of all people trying to be prim. “Subtle.” 

“But that’s the point!” You throw your arms up in the air and only their hands pulling on your shirt keep you from falling off again. “Tell me what’s fucking subtle and dignified about kismeshissidute. Kishmessistood. _Kismesissitude_ , fuck, why are all words associated with that quadrant such fucking tongue twisters.” 

“I think it’s for practice,” Ulyses croons, smirking at you in a way that’d be incredibly annoying if you didn’t suddenly find the joke funny. 

“I’ve always found quadrants to be somewhat confusing, I confess,” Iggy says somewhat demurely, drinking his water. 

“It’s okay,” you slur, “I’m pretty sure the feeling’s mutual.” Ulyses kicks you. “Ow! The hell was that for?” 

“Foot slipped,” Ulyses shrugs, expression full of mock innocence. “Can I have another one?” He asks Iggy, offering the plate with a winning smile. 

“I suppose you might as well,” he replies, serving him without a fuss. 

“Maybe the rustbloods’ve got this right,” you muse absently, chin resting on your folded arms while Iggy passes the plate above your head. “Maybe we should just have a giant orgy and call it quits.” 

Ulyses sprays the table, and you laugh as he’s reduced to a coughing, spluttering ball of flailing. Iggy merely smiles some more. 

“Spit’s rubbing off on you,” he says, once he stops hacking up and making a mess. “And I don’t mean with his spiked seadweller junk.” 

“Spiked seadweller junk?” Iggy inquires, head tilting slightly to the side. 

“Oh god,” you groan, digging your fingers into your hair, “ _don’t_.” 

“Yeah, you know,” Ulyses goes on, utterly ignoring you, “they say they’ve got like. Spikes in their bulges and all sorts of creepy seadweller shit between their legs.” 

“I don’t understand,” Iggy says plainly, absently grabbing one of your horns and preventing you from slamming your forehead into the table. 

“Me neither, but I’m not the one with a gill kink,” Ulyses pokes your side and you take a swing at him, blindly. Iggy tugs you back sharply by the horn, and you end up half sprawled against the brownblood as Ulyses cackles gleefully. “Or maybe’s the fins? I bet it’s the fins, I can admit those look cool.” 

“Lemmings!” You snarl loudly, boneless and aimless, mind fuzzy with enough alcohol to ignore the sharp, deadly thoughts fluttering inside your skull. 

“Lemmings!” Ulyses cries out happily, toasting with his plate. 

You don’t remember how you make your way back to your own room after that. 

** ʆ **

“I’m not sure how I let you talk me into this,” you say, a tad plaintively, looking at Alilah and then at Alston. “I’m not even sure why we need to do this.” 

You are all seated on the floor of her room, which is decorated by an exquisitely plush carpet in fuchsia and pink. You’re fairly certain it was a gift from someone else, because Alilah certainly doesn’t care about decoration. If you had to guess, you’d say it’s probably Linnea’s doing. Or maybe Dhraid. Alilah’s room is spacious and rather than a rest slab, there is a shallow, oval pool by the wall, far away from the window to be undisturbed by the light during the day, just like in Alston’s room. You’re fairly certain Alilah and Alston are the only seadwellers that actively spend most of their time on land, as many of the seadwellers that mill about the city prefer to keep to their own city and never spend days away from it if they can help it. There are many things about the structure of their bodies and how they adapt to both environments that you have absolutely no idea or understanding of, but you sometimes catch yourself thinking about it. One day, maybe, you’ll figure out how to ask without screwing up somehow. 

“Because it’s tradition,” Alston replies, smirking smugly. 

“Seadweller tradition,” you grouse, though you have the sinking feeling you might be pouting, if one were to judge from the look in Alilah’s face. 

“And you happen to be involved with seadwellers,” she says, half arrogantly, half teasingly, “so you can’t blame anyone but yourself.” 

“You don’t even follow seadweller traditions!” You protest, as Alston places a small wooden box in the center of your small circle. 

“I’ve decided to,” Alilah flares her fins at you, eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s only _proper_.” 

You make a strangled sound in the back of your throat as Alston snickers, opening the box and revealing three pairs of gold earrings inside. They’re never, ever going to let you live that down, you’re certain. But you suppose it’s your own fault for being a child about things, and not a big price to pay for everything else. 

Your relationship with Alston hasn’t really changed much, all things considered. You can admit you were afraid it would, but like most of your recent fears, it hasn’t really amounted to anything. All that’s really changed is that you’ve added sex to the list of things Alston is hopelessly addicted to, along with alcohol, annoying people, sleeping and his goddamn animals. But you suppose it’s not that bad. You kind of really enjoy it, if you have to be honest, which you try to be, even when it’s embarrassing. 

On the other hand, your relationship with Alilah is far more focused on talking and sharing things, than anything sexual. Since you’re both essentially making it up as you go and you promised to stop overthinking things about that, you’ve been trying very hard to not worry or flail or panic about every little thing. At least, unlike Alston, Alilah has no qualms about speaking up about what’s on her mind. Bit by bit, then, you’ve slowly let her take control and do with things as she pleases. It’s working and that’s what matters. 

“How does this even work?” You ask, eying Alston warily as he dips a needle into a bowl of sea water and then into one of alcohol. 

“It’s just symbolism, really,” he says, “but you wanted to make a statement, so this’ll be a goddamn statement.” 

“But won’t only seadwellers know what it means?” Alilah muses, folding her hands in her lap and watching him repeat the process with two other needles. 

“For a while,” Alston grins deviously, “but you’re assuming seadwellers aren’t the biggest bunch of stupid gossips in the history of ever. They’ll try to make a racket out of it, too, threaten sedition and be a general nuisance.” 

You and Alilah share a look. She’s amused, you’re vaguely horrified. 

“This is why no one ever does as you say, Spit,” you say, giving him a long-suffering look and ignoring the way his grin only gets worse. “You’re terrible at being convincing.” 

“Unlike you?” He sneers. “Who is always so convincingly terrible?” 

“ _Children_ ,” Alilah says, pointedly, before you and Alston can go off on an argument. “Do him first, Alston, and remember I can and will hurt you if you turn that into a sexual quip.” 

You watch in fascination as he opens his mouth, closes it, glares and then sulks at her, properly chastised. 

“Worst moirail!” He wails mockingly, throwing his arms up in the air. “Now come here and let me _do_ you, Harlow. Our Lady hath spokenth.” 

“Spokenth?” You ask, but let him pull you closer until you’re draped on his lap. You snicker when he flicks your ear in reproach. “Should I be as nervous as I am?” 

“No, but you’re always nervous enough for the rest of us anyway,” he fingers your hair, then sets your ear between his fingers, feeling out the edges. “Hold still.” 

You do, trying to measure your breathing and keep yourself calm and focused, but you still shriek like a wiggler when he pushes the needle through the skin and the cartilage. You swear he takes his sweet goddamn time picking up the corresponding earring from the box and clasping it in place. For such an important, intimate moment, you’re too busy glaring at Alston’s smirk to really consider the implications of what he just did. From now on, you’ll carry his sign on your person all the time, engraved on the inside of the ring. You’ll probably freak the fuck out about it properly once it stops feeling like your ear’s on fire, the weight of the earring distracting. 

“Your turn,” you say, scowling darkly as you pick up a different needle and glower at him. “Come here.” 

“Look at where the others are,” he replies, suddenly losing all his humor at the situation. “Look for the fucking cartilage, because if you pierce the membrane it’s going to tear and it’ll get infected and then I will fucking drown you.” 

“Shoosh, Alston,” Alilah whispers, patting his knee as he grudgingly leans over to rest his face on your lap, laughter in her voice. 

“I know what I’m doing,” you announce, even if you really don’t, studying his fin and the rings already in it. “I know what I’m doing,” you repeat, with a lot less confidence as you rest the tip of the needle on your chosen spot. 

You push. It goes through a lot more easily than you expected, though Alston tenses and barks a laugh of nervous laughter, like he does when he’s hurt and unable to complain. Rather than worry you, it thrills you. You choose the appropriate earring from the box and fumble with it before you finally click it close in place. 

“You’re a ruthless brute,” he says, as sitting up as soon as you let go of his head. “Fucking useless, I don’t know how you made that hurt that much, you asshole.” 

Alilah laughs before you can say anything, fresh and bright and it effectively silences you before your little spat can properly escalate. 

“You are so evenly matched in both ridiculousness and melodrama,” she tells you, grin showing her thin, needle-sharp teeth. “It must be serendipity.” 

“What!” You protest, giving her a slightly wounded look. 

“Worst moirail!” Alston cries out at the ceiling, as if it holds the answer to everything. 

The rest of the small ceremony goes without much fuss. You pierce her fin, though it’s a lot harder than with Alston, because her entire hide is thick to ridiculous degree, and she pierces your other ear. Alston does likewise, though lacking a right fin, she simply puts her earring a little higher up than yours. You then end up lying on a pile of limbs in the water, which makes you nervous still but helps them relax considerably. 

“We’re gonna be history’s greatest argument for why quadrantcorners shouldn’t be quadrantmates, aren’t we?” You say suddenly, watching the palms of your hands, which have now gone wrinkly and a few shades paler. 

“History can go fucking hang,” Alston mutters, head nestled somewhere against your side and Alilah’s hip. 

“But—“ 

“Harlow,” she says, running a finger along the length of your right horn, “it’ll be alright, Prophet. Have a little faith.” 

And because you cannot deny her anything anymore, you do. 

** ʆ **

No one really comments on your new jewelry, except a few limebloods who congratulate you, along with the rest of the Council. The seadwellers make a fuss of course, but Alston chooses to stay a few weeks underwater and do some of his special brand of damage control. You decide not to think about it too much and concentrate on finding your place in the city. Trolls are still adjusting, adapting, but with considerably less complaints than you expected. At the Great Mother’s request, Zillah sets her forge to procure not weapons, but pails, for an impending ceremony to deliver the genetic material to her cave. You admit the idea of mystifying the whole thing is brilliant, as it adds another layer of solemnity that will sate the most stubborn among your ranks. Her drones have carved an elaborate system of tunnels and a temple-like structure on the surface, closer to the city than her actual dwellings are supposed to be. It’s grand and terrifying and you wonder how long has she been working on it, exactly. Neither she nor Alilah are willing to offer any information on the time you spent molting under the Guardian’s power, so you try not to dwell on it. 

You’re still somewhat conflicted about your lack of prophecies and a little lost about what you can offer the city now that you’re no longer certain of the future, but whenever you’re feeling down, there’s always someone or something to take your mind off it. 

“I don’t understand why all this is necessary,” Alilah tells you, as you both sit high above a stone arch, watching the gleaming black carapaces of countless drones clearing out debris from the cave, marching in steady, precise lines. “The ceremony and the temple and the whole thing. The Great Mother says she doesn’t need this, I asked.” 

“Did you ask her why?” You smile a little at the way she looks put out. 

She’s an impressively utilitarian creature, at heart. She hates waste of time or resources, though she keeps surprisingly neutral as she learns more and more about the history and culture of trollkind as a whole. It mystifies her, at times, how people cling on to tradition while forgetting where it came from. Everything must be explained. Everything must have a reason. And when Alilah stares you down, lips pressed into a thin line and fins flaring at each side of her face? You’ve yet to meet a troll that does not scramble to explain in minute detail. 

“She said I should ask you,” she swings her feet a little, giving you a curious look. “So here I am, asking you. Why?” 

You laugh a little, leaning back to look at the sky. 

“Because they’re symbols, and trolls need those as much as they need shelter and sustenance,” you say, smiling as you try to remember your old studies in astronomy and the various constellations. “This is the seed of a new tradition, and with tradition comes identity.” 

“It seems more like a religion to me,” Alilah points out, leaning forward to watch the line of drones marching below you. “Or well, something like what Spit described as religion.” 

The comment startles you a little. You frown, thinking hard about it, and find yourself somewhat surprised by the results. Only the brownbloods followed any sort of structured religion, before the meteors came. The bluebloods had their strange ideas about life and death and life after death, and of course, some castes still care for stories about the Guardian. But religion, as a whole, is not a thing that has concerned trollkind in nearly a thousand sweeps or more. There’s superstition and some ceremonies that mean something to some groups, but there’s no such thing as gods or rites or anything else. As far as you can remember, all notions of that got drowned in the great wars that tore the planet and forced all races but yours to center their lifestyles around warlike practices. There are records, every so often, about a psychic trying to claim godhood, but those never really amount to much in the long run. 

“I don’t think the Great Mother is claiming to be a goddess,” you answer slowly, absently fiddling with the ring in your left ear. It’s healing nicely enough. “And I’m not sure why anyone would think she is. If anything, the Guardian might be the closest thing to a god we have, and fuck if anyone was left with any willingness to worship that guy.” 

“I still don’t understand why all this is necessary, beyond your natural penchant for being dramatic and your irrational love of the grandiose.” 

“Ow,” you say, holding a hand over your chest, before you lean in to casually brush your lips against her fin, “I love you too, my lady.” 

She gives you an unamused look, though the way her fins flare gives away she’s actually a little flustered. You grin. You are of the privileged few that knows how to get under her skin, and you’ve taken to enjoy it. She makes you pay for it, for every single blush and every tiny sound, but you don’t care. Your matespritship is an awkward mess as it is, the least you can do is help her laugh about it every now and then. 

“Harlow.” You look up at her as she smirks at you. You blink as she leans in to brush her lips against yours. “You’re still not my lord.” 

You crack up laughing, shifting so she can rest her head against your thigh. You finger her hair, the curls reckless and untamable as ever, and feel supremely at ease with the universe for perhaps five seconds. Then you remember all those things you don’t know and all the uncertainty and the worry and the things no one else will think about and let out a soft sigh. 

“Why are children important, Alilah?” You decide to explain this like it was explained to you, when you were two, sitting comfortably in your mother’s lap. She shifts a little to give you a puzzled scowl. Alilah doesn’t like to be asked things she doesn’t know the answer of, especially if she takes it as someone trying to prove her ignorance. She detests ignorance, in herself and others. “Children matter, my lady, because they are the continuation of who we are. They are our future and the projection of our efforts. Every great thing trollkind has created is the result of generations piling on and on, until whatever stands in our way is defeated.” 

“I know limebloods hold family in the highest esteem,” she looks a little unconvinced. “Delphi told me so more than once.” 

Your smile fades despite your best efforts, at the sound of your mother’s name. You still miss her, her wisdom and her wry comfort, but you can’t afford to linger too much in the past. For better or for worst, you are a creature of the future, always looking forward, never back. You wonder what she’d say, anyway, about your choice of quadrantmates. She knew Alston well while she was alive, and you’d risk saying she liked him sometimes, but she never acknowledged your feelings for each other, often ruthlessly derailing until the topic was dropped. You know she definitely liked Alilah, at least, having given her use of her name and not her title. You miss her and you feel oddly stupid for it, because you always knew she’d die that way. You always knew she’d die and leave you behind, with nothing but her memory to keep you company. 

“Yes,” you make yourself smile down, eyes half lidded. “But even so, the other castes joined us anyway, didn’t they? Even the rustbloods, and their lack of quadrants or families or anything. It’s not family that matters, Alilah, not even connection by blood. It’s the knowledge that our legacy will be inherited and enriched by the next generation.” 

“But _why?_ ” She scowls, even as her eyes fall shut as you continue to finger her hair. 

“Because we’ll die, one day,” you say, quiet. “And they ensure our end will not be _the_ end. Because we’re insignificant little things in a planet hell bent on seeing us die and disappear, and we realize we need something larger than ourselves to go on and endure.” You shift her a little, bending your spine to brush your lips against hers again. “Maybe you’ll understand, when you see tiny little fuchsia wigglers crawling and swimming all over the place.” 

She sits up fast enough you barely have enough time to avoid an accidental headbutt. 

“What.” 

“Well,” you grin at her a little, “that’s what concupiscent quadrants are for, my lady.” 

“I.” Her expression is genuinely blank, as if you had just upset the entire balance of the world, in her mind. Which you probably just did, shit. Alilah folds herself in place, frowning. “I never thought there could be others like me. I assumed. Well.” She gives you a peculiar look. “That is, if we... That our…” 

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her flustered quite this way before. You reach an arm for her, pulling her up against your side again. 

“That if we had any children, they’d all be limebloods?” You speak the words against her temple, smiling a little when an arm wraps around your waist. You feel, more than see her nod. “You’re not a mutant, Alilah. It’s entirely possible you’ll just happen to be the first of your kind, but that doesn’t mean you’re destined to be the last.” 

You let the silence settle as you give her space to think. She’s quiet, most of the time, speaking only when she has something to say, but more often than not contenting herself with watching and learning and making her own mind about things. Sometimes you try and think how different everything must be, in her eyes, after spending so many sweeps alone in the depths. 

“I don’t know what there’d be for them,” she says eventually, body loose and slack against yours. “There’s no… no tradition or history or anything. There’s only me.” 

“So you’ll build them some,” you offer her a lopsided smile. “If they come, and I’m sure they will, you can start your own caste. All castes started somewhere, anyway. You can have your own traditions and your own history.” 

“And what if they don’t want it?” She frowns. “What if they’re not… I was raised by Mother, outside of anything else. They wouldn’t be. They’d be _different_.” 

“My lady,” you say, laughing a little. “If this ridiculous mess I call life has taught me anything is that different is good. Different means change. Different means survival.” You kiss the base of her fin. “You’re worrying too much.” 

“I learned that from you,” she complains without bite, giving you a mock sulk. 

“It’ll be alright, I promise.” Absently, you link your fingers with hers. Her hands are long and almost delicate, belying the impossible strength that hides in them. “And if it’s not, we’ll _make_ it alright. After all we’ve been through, we deserve it.” 

“I suppose,” she begins, after a long moment of silence, “that given your rate of success, I should believe you.” 

Part of you is scared. Part of you wants to admit you know jackshit and without your dreams, you don’t really know anything about success. But the rest of you is coming to terms with it, bit by bit, and that by now, you’re entitled to a little hope. 

It’ll be alright, it _has_ to be. 

** ʆ **

Inside the web of tunnels and chambers, there is always a hum of activity. You don’t really like coming down here, even if this sanctuary is well lit, unlike the one in the desert canyon. The walls are covered in carvings and signs, which you wouldn’t be surprised if it were the history of Alternia from its humble beginnings. If anyone would know that, for certain, it’d be the Great Mother. Tonight, she has summoned you and the rest of the Council, her drones guiding you through the twisting corridors into a large, empty chamber that’s easily big enough to contain the house of the Ten two times over. 

“They are coming, now,” the nearest drone says quietly, standing at the edge of the floor, where it gives in to water. From the way it moves, you have the sinking feeling it’s connected directly to the sea, but you keep your thoughts to yourself. “This was not part of the bargain, of our Pact,” she goes on, folding her hands and smiling almost lovingly. “This is my gift to you, as a mother to her beloved children.” 

Before anyone can ask, you hear the sound of steps echoing in the halls. They’re not, however, troll steps. They’re animals, dozens, hundreds of them, that flood into the chamber, walking in with a quiet, subdued air. Prey and predator march in without a second thought, as if hypnotically pulled by a strange force. In the water too, you can see them approaching the edge, breaking the surface almost curiously. Docile. They’re all white, too, but they’re also all different. All sorts of beasts, some of which you’ve never seen before. 

You risk a look around at your companions, and find them staring in equal parts mistrust and wonder at the strange parade of creatures. Only Alilah’s smile has a knowing tint to it, as she stands with her arms folded over her chest, eyes bright. Alilah enjoys knowing things others don’t, but she’s not spiteful enough for it to be truly dangerous, so you relax a little. If she knows what’s going on, it’s alright. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Tyrell demands, somewhat nervously, because to no one’s surprise, Tyrell doesn’t like animals all that much. 

“These are my servants,” the Great Mother says, rather pleased by herself. “Bargained for with the Singer herself, modeled after the Guardian to guard my children. This is my gift to you, little trolls, and to the children born of me. Companionship and guardianship, from the day you hatch, to the day you die.” 

“But they’re animals,” Ulyses blurts out, blinking slowly. 

“No,” the Great Mother smiles deviously, “They’re _lusii_.” 

“They’re infinitely smarter than an animal,” Alilah interjects, smirking a bit herself. “They’ve come here, because wigglers will hatch soon enough. They’ll find and bond with a specific one, and remain at their side until they die.” Her smirk melts into a softer smile. “They will do for trolls what my Mother did for me.” 

“But is it necessary?” Zillah frowns, folding her arms over her chest and looking thoroughly unconvinced. “What’s the point?” 

“The point, child,” and there’s a scolding note in the Great Mother’s tone that makes you wince, “is that trolls are fickle. Trolls are restless. Trolls change their minds with the seasons and but few of you hold onto your commitments no matter what comes to pass. You know this to be true.” 

“You forgot the bit where trolls are fucking stupid,” Phylis adds, somewhat sullen. The Great Mother laughs. 

“Indeed. But trolls are also my children.” The animals – lusii? – around you shift and settle, as if to wait, not paying you or each other any mind. “And I love my children. When the conflicts begin, about who will look after what child, who’ll teach them what, I will not let my children suffer because of politics. I will not let my children be _alone_.” 

“But they’re _animals_ ,” Linnea, who out of all of you has, in fact, raised children of her own, sounds skeptical at the idea. “How can you expect an animal to raise a child?” 

“I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but animals seem to do a better job rearing up their young than most trolls I know,” Alston comments snidely. 

He would, of course. Because he knows firsthand what it is like to be betrayed by those closest to him. But that’s not something anyone else would know, and though he means one thing, his tone and his reputation makes it seem like he’s simply needling Linnea for the sake of being an asshole. You pass air through your teeth, rolling your eyes, but Alilah beats you to it and just casually paps his arm, giving him a stern look. 

“They’re connected to the Great One Mind,” the Great Mother says, spreading her arms as her eyes glow jade. “Their knowledge and understanding rivals that of a troll, though they are not meant to replace you. They will guide and protect, to ensure these children will survive long enough to find their place among their own kind.” 

“Doesn’t seem a bad idea,” Spyros says after a moment, looking over at the crowds of lusii all around you with something like a speculative glint. “In theory anyway.” 

“But how does it work?” Phylis cuts in, absently patting Spyros’ head as if to dissuade him from doing something, well, reckless. “Did you just magic them up? How do they connect with the Great One Mind and what does that mean for us? And how are they going to choose what child is theirs? Are they looking after wigglers or after children proper? How will they adapt to other trolls? And—“ 

“Phylis,” Spyros laughs, shifting his shoulders and nearly dislodging the goldblood. She shrieks a little and then gives him a glare, holding on tight to her perch. 

The rest of the Council is smiling as well. Those that know how to smile, at least. 

“What?” She rolls her eyes at you. “I think logistics are important!” 

“And they are,” the Great Mother agrees, “but they have already been taken care of.” You get the impression she shares a look with Alilah. “And some things are better not discussed.” 

“Lady.” Phylis lets herself drop off Spyros’ shoulder, giving the Great Mother a flat look. “ _Lady_. I’m all up for avoiding unnecessary discussion when we’re just talking in fucking circles instead of actually doing shit. But you’re telling us you want to entrust our children, who are, may I remind you, the reason behind everything we’ve done in the last fifty sweeps, to fucking animals.” 

“Lusii.” 

“ _Animals_ , Lady.” Phylis insists, deadpan. “I really think this is something that should be discussed!” 

“There really isn’t much to discuss,” Alilah interrupts, arching an eyebrow at Phylis and ignoring the looks sent her way. “My Mother made them.” 

“But _how_?” 

“The same way She made _me_ ,” the Great Mother laughs, amused. “The same way She made everything else. She sang them into being.” 

“She’s made them for this task,” Alilah smiles, affection flooding her tone. “As a favor to me. It’ll be alright.” 

Phylis stares at Alilah for a long moment, and you fear this will dissolve into a fight. There’s tension in the air, but before it can come to a break, Phylis’ arms slouch and she sighs heavily. 

“I just want it out there, for the record, that this is up there with the craziest shit we’ve done yet.” A small pause. “And I’m counting the worm in that.” 

The Great Mother looks confused as you all crack up laughing at that, tilting her head to the side. Even Tyrell risks a small, acid snort. 

“A worm?” She asks, blinking rapidly. 

“Oh, you know,” Phylis grins at her, cheeky as only she can be, “some things are better not discussed.” 

** ʆ **

“This is a bad idea,” you say, holding your glaive horizontally to try and keep your balance. 

In the early night, the surf crashes against the rocks, raising a salty mist that feels heavy in your lungs. You follow Alilah along the rocks, measuring each step as you move and trying not to think of how much it’s going to hurt when you eventually slip and fall. You’ll either break your neck against the rocks, or you’ll fall into the water and drown. Or maybe both. Ahead of you, she moves with unnatural grace, surefooted and confident as she navigates the sharp rocks with the bare soles of her feet. 

“It’s not,” she calls out, a note of laughter in her voice. “You’ll like this, I promise.” 

“I like not being wet,” you grouse, uneasy as you feel a rock move under you. “Shit, if you want to murder me without witnesses, there’re better ways!” 

“ _Dramatic!_ ” She retorts, coming to a stop a few dozen steps ahead of you. 

The sea is a feral beast, twisting and turning under the caress of the wind, and the sky is darkened by clouds. It’ll rain soon, and you’re pretty certain you’ll want to be anywhere but where she’s leading you, when it happens. Since you never really get what you want the way you want it, you’re pretty sure you’ll end up sopping wet instead. 

“If I drown,” you snort, finally catching up with her, “I’m going to haunt you until the end of time.” 

“Shut up,” she says, and then tugs on your clothes, pulling you into a kiss. 

That shuts you up pretty nicely, at least until she leans back and begins to fall, dragging you along with her. You shriek as you cling to her, letting go of the glaive. The hole in the rocks is barely big enough for the two of you, and it feels like you fall forever before you hit water. There’s light in the cave, glowing bright from a fluorescent moss growing on the rocks, at the edge of the water. There’s a small line of sand and rocks further back, but you can’t really concentrate on that when there’s salt in your eyes and all you can see is dark, cold water all around you. 

“You’re being dramatic,” Alilah says, amused. Her arms are around you, holding your head above the surface. You’re pretty sure that if her skin were any less thick, your claws would be drawing blood. 

“Are you out of your mind?!” You screech at her, clinging for your dear life. 

“ _Dramatic_ ,” she insists, and kicks towards the shore with a stupid ease you find offensive at the moment because you just drowned and she’s so unruffled about it. “Relax, Harlow.” 

“I swear to all holy powers,” you mutter, trying to get used to the strange feeling of weightlessness, “that I will murder the next troll that tells me to relax.” 

“Or you could just relax,” she grins, helping you out onto the small shore. 

You let yourself drop on it without a care, coughing. You pant for breath, feeling your insides burn with every breath you take, and your eyes water and sting from the salt water. Alilah drops her culling fork by your side and then vanishes back into the depths. You’re too busy trying not to panic about drowning to panic about being left alone, so when she surfaces again, a few minutes later, carrying your glaive, all you manage is a dark, sullen glare. 

“Is it a seadweller thing, this whole secret cove under rocks that’s nigh inaccessible for anything with a sense of self-preservation?” You smirk as she blinks in surprise. “Oh, I know all about Spit’s little secret hideout thing. He’s dragged me down there before.” 

“And yet you complain so bitterly about this,” she teases, folding herself down to sit next to you. 

“Contrary to what you might think,” you groan, then slowly shift about until you’re resting your cheek on her thigh, “just because you get nearly drowned several times, it doesn’t mean you’ll eventually develop a taste for it. It doesn’t work that way.” 

“How does it work, then?” But she softens her tone as her fingers dig into your hair. 

“Fuck if I know,” you admit, actually relaxing a little even if you’re cold and wet and you’re probably going to end up with pneumonia for this little stunt. “What did you want me to see?” 

“I wanted to talk to you,” she shrugs, “about things. Us.” 

“My lady, I can’t help but notice you had to preface this talk by nearly drowning me first,” you let your lips quirk into an amused smirk. “I’m not sure I should be afraid or intrigued.” 

She leans in to press her lips to yours. It’s not chaste in the least, and you shift in place, raising half your weight on a hand to press harder into it, the other reaching to tangle in the hair at the nape of her neck. It’s a lazy kiss, thorough but unhurried. There’s something fundamentally different about kissing her and kissing Alston, and it’s not just because they sit smugly in opposite quadrants. You don't submit to Alston, but you let Alilah lead wherever she wants this to go. Neither of you knows exactly what you’re doing, only that you go on as far as it feels good, and then stop when it gets awkward. Sometimes you fear you’re on the verge of flipping pale for her, and then she’s smile or scowl or look at you, and everything else will be forgotten without a second thought. You burn for her, to the marrow of your bones, but it’s not the type of fire that consumes itself. You’re content to sit by the side and watch and bask in whatever glorious disaster she’s indulging at the time. You don’t want to control her or subdue her. You don’t want to tame her. You want to see the world under her heel, instead, and you are the first one there. Part of what made it so hard to avoid her is your need to be there, to be of service. 

She’s your lady, but you’ll never be her lord. And it’s alright, in the end, because that’s just how the world is meant to work. 

“Well?” She asks, arching both eyebrows at you, looking devious. 

You should probably be a lot more concerned about her being devious, as that can’t possibly end well for anyone involved. But the smile only makes you sick with pity, your insides churning and tying themselves into knots. 

“That wasn’t a talk,” you say, licking your lips, “and so I’m not afraid or intrigued. Rather, I’m very interested in whatever else you might have to say.” 

“Are you, now,” she drawls, with an inflexion that screams Alston to anyone who knows how to look. And yet from her, it’s nowhere near as irritating. 

“Yes,” you say, and lean in to kiss her again. “I am your captive audience. Literally.” 

“You talk too much,” she chides, pressing the words against the curve of your jaw. 

And because she’s your lady and you’re not her lord, you tilt your head to the side, baring your throat, and endeavor to be quiet from then on. 

You’re not very successful, at that, but you don’t think she really minds. 

** ʆ **

You stare at the plate in front of you, as if expecting to find the answers to all your problems hidden at the bottom of it. 

Once more, you woke up in the middle of the day, annoyed at some half-formed dream or another. You woke up alone, for once, which is slowly becoming a bit of a novelty in the face of the quadrant mess you’ve landed yourself into. You’ve nearly mastered the art of sleeping next to Alston and you’ve finally figured out how to fit Alilah’s goddamn horns in your rest slab without anyone needing to break their neck. You’re used to waking up with someone’s limbs hopelessly tangled into your personal space, and it’s not so bad, in the end. Not even when it gets really weird and somehow you end up freezing half to death between two seadwellers. But not today. Today it was just you and dreams that felt empty and left an unpleasant taste under your tongue. 

So you came down here, set in drinking yourself unconscious for no particular reason except perhaps habit. You went about the whole thing methodically, as you usually do when you drink alone in the middle of the day. But now that the plate is ready, set before you, you aren’t even sure you want it. You fiddle with your earrings as you stare at nothing in particular, thinking. Now, it is the time to think. You’ve swallowed back so many thoughts, so many panic moments, promising yourself to think about them once you have time. So you push the little plate away from you, frowning, and decide to think instead. 

It’s so much easier, you realize, to drink than it is to think. It’s so much easier to indulge in the habit than question it. At the core of it, you find a kernel of fear stubbornly clinging to your mind. You still find yourself thinking about dying, every now and then. You think about fading into legend like you always thought you would, becoming a nameless icon that no one will really care about in a couple hundred sweeps. You can’t die now, though. You can’t afford to. The Council doesn’t need your prophecies anymore, but they still ask for your opinion about things. Alston needs you, like he needs water to survive. He needs you to needle and snark and bitch and fight and keep him always pushing against the line, always striving for more. Alilah needs you, as far as she needs anything in the world. She needs someone to support her for herself and not for the symbol she’s become. She needs you to tell her stories and cut her hair and explain the oddest parts of troll culture. 

And you need them, too, of course, but you’re a limeblood and it’s in your nature to consider what others need of you, before you ever dare wonder what you need in return. It’s all so new and strange, this world that seems almost weightless without prophecies holding it down. It’s new and strange and unforgiving, and you’re still afraid of what will happen if you make a mistake. You run a finger along the edge of the small plate, pensive. But, you think, you’re beginning to understand that this is the kind of world you’ve dedicated your life to. This is the world of trolls who know only hardship and conquest, that have to fight for everything they have. 

You were once a proud, feral race, as a whole. Long ago, before the wars and the meteors and the prophecies. You were once something grand. And perhaps, beyond the promises of life and rebirth, what you’ll truly gift them will be a chance to return to that. There has been dissent in the city, of course. There’s always dissent in the city, for one reason or another, because trolls are not creatures of peace. You’re not creatures of concessions. You’re certain many trolls will leave the city, when the first wigglers hatch and the lusii take them under their care. And you’ll let them go, you realize with a jolt, mind clearer than ever. You’ll let them walk their own path and make their own choices, because that is what life after the prophecy means. You’ll watch them go and the Council will fret and fuss and you’ll have to offer your services to them. Not as a leader, not anymore, but as an advisor. Leadership is not for trolls who cannot make choices on their own, like you. Leadership is for trolls like Alilah, who have the indomitable will to see everything to the last consequences. Leadership is for trolls like Alston, who know the ins and outs of everything and everyone, and understand the way the world works and why it does so. 

Maybe one day, you’ll learn how to choose for yourself. Maybe one day, the idea will not paralyze you with blind terror. Maybe one day, you’ll be the kind of leader you’ve convinced your people you are. Maybe. But for now, you will concentrate on letting go of the pretenses and relearn yourself as you relearn the world you’ve built. 

You take the small plate and peer down at the liquid glistening in it, before dumping it out the window. You hear the alcohol sizzle and ignite under the sun and your hand stings even from just that brief exposure to the blistering noon light, but you don’t care. You go about putting everything away and clearing the table with methodical movements. You feel awake and buzzing and yet tired all of a sudden. It’s a different kind of excitement from the frantic rush you used to feel when you woke up from a dream, images all but seared into the back of your eyes. But it makes you feel _alive_. 

You are a creature that serves predestination and paradox, but you’re not _made_ of it. You do not control it, nor can you truly understand it. You head back to your room, steps quiet and head held high, as you study your surroundings and see not the final product, but the sweeps upon sweeps that went into making it what it is now. You don’t see the careful lines of each carving or the delicate arch of every curve. You see the trolls that fought and gave their lives for it. You think of the hardened souls that survived the end of the world, and refused to give up their place in the world. You could stand to learn from them, you think. You could stand to remember you’re something more than a figurehead and a reader of dreams. 

You’re a troll, who loves and hates and hopes and dreams your own dreams, not just the stolen glimpses of someone else’s life. You’re nearly a hundred sweeps old by now, but you feel, with a strange certainty that has nothing to do with prophecy, that you’ve barely just begun your journey. 

You’re Harlow, son of Delphi. Limeblood and prophet. Kismesis and matesprit. Leader and Dreamer. 

And maybe, just maybe, it’s finally your turn to be _more_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE, IT'S DONE, OH MY GOD, IT'S FINALLY DONE.
> 
> Oh sweet mother of mercy you don't understand how much work went into this thing. But it's done and I can finally take a rest. God, I had to rewrite this a few times and then edit and reread and I bet there's bazillion typos and mistakes, but that's okay. I promise I'll fix those as soon as my eyes stop glazing over it. Promise.
> 
> Also, AO3? Darling? _Stop taking my coding away._ Don't do this to me, it's unfair.
> 
> Next chapter we begin to play my favorite game: _Guess who's gonna die next._ Because I am a terrible, terrible person.


	9. Teal ⁂ Advisor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then Trolls Moved On.

** Teal ⁂ Advisor **

Spit always lets his mouth run ahead of him, speaking thoughtlessly about things he shouldn’t. You’ve learned, over the sweeps, to not take it personally, though you can’t help but roll your eyes at him every once in a while. You take comfort on the fact by now your fellow Pact members are more than used to it and feel absolutely no remorse delivering retaliation upon his pompous, arrogant, undignified ass. 

“Oh, come the fuck on, is that the best you can do?” The seadweller croons, a sword in each hand and eyes alight with malice. “Don’t even need psionics to kick y’all asses at this rate.” 

You pause a moment and risk a look around you. At the small courtyard in the center of the house of the Ten, Spit and Harlow are having a friendly spar. In the corridor surrounding it, the rest of the Pact occupies themselves with their own business, simply content to remain within each other’s sight, though you can see them perk up at the seadweller’s bragging. It’s an odd relationship you have all developed, as the city changes and grows. You always thought the arrival of the children would pull the Pact apart, but they merely pushed you all the closer together. So many decisions to take, so many unhappy trolls willing to make a mess over the wiggler and lusus issue, that you had no one else to turn to but those trolls who knew exactly what the price had been, for this. In retrospect, it seems only natural that you found comfort in those who understood your reasons best. After all, for all the Pact bickers and fights, you’ve long resigned yourselves to the fact you’d give your life for each other almost without thought; and most of you, almost without complaint. 

These days, life is fairly calm. Many trolls abandoned the city when the lusii and their charges arrived, disillusioned by their inability to truly raise children again, but Harlow fought tooth and nail to let them go unscathed. Privately, you always thought that was poor judgment on his part, but you couldn’t really argue with his point: in the end, you are trying to eventually repopulate the planet, not merely enlarge the city. Those first children are almost six sweeps old by now, fully adapted to the life the city offers them. The generations after them have not been as problematic as that first one, the one that made you realize the city was truly not designed to house children. By now, though, things are more stable. You have organized hiveblocks for them to live in, the economy has more or less stabilized in the wake of the sudden population growth and most people don’t really give a second look to any bizarre lusus that walks the streets with their entrusted charge. 

The Pact has gone from warriors to leaders to something else. Between you and Tyrell, you’ve managed to turn the tide into structuring the government more securely. He delights in drafting laws and putting some semblance of order in the world, and you delight in pushing and pulling and ensuring he makes it fair and understandable for all. There have been hints, in the last few perigees, that you recognize as a budding black interest from his part, but you’ve decided to not say anything until and if he decides to talk to you about it. You’re content with the state of your quadrants, and you’re busy as it is, overseeing the latest draft of trade laws and regulations, to commit yourself to something as taxing as a kismesissitude. You really doubt you could find anyone deranged enough to try and auspice between you, and deep down, you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t let them anyway. 

“Oh shit,” Spit hisses as he barely avoids a swing from Zillah’s axe. 

You let your lips twist into a smile, putting down the scroll you’re reading to watch the other members of the Pact join in on the spar. You have to admit Spit can put something other than his foot where his mouth is, parrying off Linnea and Zillah with relative ease, but you suspect that is mostly just experience rather than pure talent, as he’d have you believe. True to his word, he does not use his powers to tilt the balance, even when he finds himself crowded and outnumbered. His body twists with uncanny precision, sliding in the space between whistling blades as he dodges and turns. There’s something annoyingly elegant in the way he moves, concentration forcing his face into something other than a sneer for a change. You wonder absently, as he hooks a sword around Harlow’s glaive and uses it to push the limeblood in Ulyses’ way, where he learned it. Because it is technique he is displaying, clearly, structured and practiced and not just piled on experience. You wonder why he’d choose those swords, with wicked handles and impressive curves, but that serve more for disarming than true slaughter. You wonder where he learned to swing them, hooked together, to open up some space and break the crowd around him. 

You can tell the precise moment it becomes a game, for all involved. Polearms are easy for him to parry, but Ulyses’ whips are not. Neither are Phylis’ knives and Spyros’ claws. The only ones who remain out of the brawl are Tyrell, who watches everything with a sour expression, Iggy, who is not present, and Alilah, who sits on the second floor rail, culling fork resting on her knees. And of course, yourself. You do not indulge in petty spats, even when they’re meant to be fun. You do not dishonor your skill and your fans; when you fight, you do not stop until someone’s dead. It’s just the way you do things. 

“Now, that’s not fair,” Spit whines as Alilah’s culling fork sinks into the ground, just where he’d been standing. 

“It’s just a bit of unconventional shooshing,” Alilah says, twirling the weapon with ungodly ease. “Maybe it’ll get you to stop talking out of line.” 

“Worst moirail!” Spit wails as she takes a swing at him, and he’s forced to back away, barely managing to keep up. 

It takes Alilah five minutes to disarm him and then half an hour to make him stop sulking. It grates on you a little, such undignified displays, but you suppose someone who has never known powerlessness would not understand. Spit is powerful, the most powerful among you, in his own way, because he has knowledge and age and experience, which matter more than his ridiculous psychic strength. And yet, time and time again, he carries himself as nothing but a spoiled brat, throwing tantrums and holding grudges. You’re fairly certain the way he carries himself is to blame for the constant seadweller revolts and their generalized discontent. It doesn’t matter if he is a master of politics, which he is, and you know because he’s danced with you more than once, or if he truly guards his people’s interests, which he does, for all he complains about it. It doesn’t matter because the seadwellers still see what you see: a piss poor, often drunken fool who can’t tell his right hand from his left. They don’t stop and wonder if there’s any rationality to the demands imposed on them, they simply assume it’s the result of their representation in the Council being inept. Which grates you, because Spit’s people are actually far better off than most, in the great scale of things, and it annoys you greatly that they refuse to acknowledge it simply because Spit himself will not make them. 

You watch them laugh and jeer at each other, with the seadweller right at the center of it, biting off spiteful quips and trying to ruffle feathers as best he can. Sometimes you look at him and wonder. He lashes out to everyone and all, a smirk on his face and the smug certainty no matter what they do, he will go on standing long after everything is said and done. Out of you all, you think, he has been the one who has lost the least, factually speaking, the one who always runs the smallest risks. And yet, sometimes you wonder about that. There’s something possessive and terrifying in the way he bows to Harlow and Alilah, something that makes you truly pity the fool who dares raise a hand against them. 

Because he might be a childish brat, on his best days, and he might delight in causing trouble everywhere he goes. But it is not the city he serves, it is not trolls he treasures. And you know from experience, personal and close to your heart, that trolls like Spit make it tempting to take them down a notch. That arrogance invites misfortune and that nothing can last forever. A simple twist of fate, and all great things come crashing down. 

But you also know and are living proof that the lower they bring you, the harsher they try to grind your arrogance down, the more violent and spectacular the retaliation will be. You try to imagine Spit in chains, brought to his knees by someone or something greater than himself. And as much pleasure as the thought might give you to see him humbled, you know full well it’d be fleeting at best. You watch him smirk and shrug off insult after insult, deranged pride unscathed. 

You know, in your very bones, that he would watch the world burn just to repay a true offense. 

You watch the rest falling into his game, ignoring the worst of his bark because they’re certain there is no bite underneath. No one listens to him, no one does as he says, often just to spite him. He speaks his mind, degrading and insulting as it is, needling them in ways they would not tolerate from anyone else, but that from him, well, it doesn’t matter. It’s just Spit. It’s just the way he is. Or perhaps it’s just the way he’s made it be. You can’t tell how much of his antics are his personality shining through, and how much is a persona he’s built over the sweeps he’s been alive. And because you can’t tell, and you don’t know how much or how well the two closest to him know, you do not join in on the teasing and cajoling. 

He adores Alilah and hates Harlow enough to protect him from anything, even himself. He will stand by them and no one else, but because you can’t tell how much of it is true devotion and how much is the whim of someone powerful enough to not care about anything else, you resist his game and all the signs that point to him being inoffensive. He’s not. He’s truly not. He’s the most dangerous among you, the dragon sleeping in your den, and you seem to be the only one who knows it. 

You can’t do anything, prove anything, and to try to call attention to it would only damage the delicate balance within the Council. But you can watch. You watch and bide your time, stewing in your own thoughts. 

** ⁂ **

Stepping into the library, you unfold a fan to hide your nose as the smell of old paper and ink is almost overpowering. It’s a strange scent, the oils that Linnea uses to preserve her precious texts, and the underlying smell that you can only describe as _clean_. It is not a very pleasant combination, but you are not here to admire the decor. You walk along the tall bookshelves, filled to the brim with books and scrolls and all manner of papers in a tightly controlled chaos. Light is scarce, coming from high lamps positioned high into the walls, so their flames won’t endanger the flammable treasures within. A few twists and turns, and you find the mistress of this labyrinth, lying on a plush carpet amidst several open books and unfinished scrolls. You can no longer muster any measure of surprise about her sleeping habits. 

You clear your throat sharply, once you approach the prone troll, but all you receive is a tired gurgle as an answer. 

“Leave me here to die,” Linnea whines softly, half hidden under her hair, which is uncharacteristically left unbound. It’s longer than you thought, glossy and ridiculously well groomed. It strikes you as odd, that someone as lazy and lethargic as the indigoblood could be fastidious enough to have hair like that. “Tell my kids I’ll haunt their asses if they don’t live up to my expectations.” 

“You can tell them so yourself,” you say, feeling your lips curl into a half smile as you nudge her with the tip of a foot. “But only after you help me. I need to find a scroll.” 

“Of course you do,” she mutters snidely, half pushing herself up and ignoring the way her hair slides over half her face. “Can’t you need it next week?” 

“No.” 

Linnea lets out an exaggerated sigh and slowly rolls to her feet, looking more like hair with horns than an actual troll. You watch quietly as she digs her claws into her strands, brushing it back between her horns. Then she sort of ties it into a loose knot, making a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. So much so, you sort of wonder if she’ll just cut off the whole thing in a fit of annoyance. Understanding comes to you, however, as you realize there are patches of dried, dead skin hanging off her and only then you offer a sympathetic smile. Molting is never fun. Molting is even less fun without a moirail to hold your hand through it, you know that from personal experience. You resolve to get out of her hair, pun wholly intended, as soon as possible, so she can wallow on her misery in peace. 

“I’m gonna need more than just ‘a scroll’, Dhraid,” she says, once she’s done cracking her spine with an unpleasantly loud noise. 

“Certainly. I need the records of relocation from the last six perigees.” You tilt your head to the side, absently fanning yourself. The room is stifling, the dry heat of the season exacerbated by the lack of windows or proper air circulation. “I was certain I’d taken it with me last night, but it appears to be missing.” 

“Hmm,” Linnea says, eyebrows dipping into a frown. “Hmmmmmmmmm,” she adds, as she turns to the bookshelves, purposely. She peers around, like a hound looking for prey, and something in her disheveled appearance strikes you as amusing. You hide your smile behind your fan as you follow her at a sedate pace, trying not to intrude. “Hmmmm,” she concludes after a moment, shoving a pile of books back into place and stomping towards another bookshelf. 

The process continues for a few more minutes, the taller troll moving with brisk familiarity around the maze of paper around her, before she finally emerges with a victorious _ha!_ and the scroll in hand. She offers it to you, but snatches it away before you can grab it. 

“Ahem.” 

You roll your eyes at her and don’t even bother to hide it. 

“Thank you,” you enunciate clearly, arching an eyebrow until she puts the scroll in your outstretched hand. 

“Don’t give me that look,” she sniffs a little, “manners are important. Someone ought to remind you lot about them.” 

“And that someone ought to be you?” You muse sardonically, smile as sharp as the edge of your fans. 

Linnea snorts. 

“Out,” she says, pointing an imperious claw in the general direction of the door. 

You tilt your head in acknowledgement to the order, then make a point to walk away with your chin up high, all but oozing arrogance. You hear the indigoblood scoff at you, but you do not bother to turn back and see the expression on her face. Your peace with her, as it is, is tenuous at best, particularly since you found your ashen quadrant so unexpectedly filled two sweeps ago. You know better than to push too hard, even if temptation is always there. 

Eventually, the balance will collapse. Eventually, things will spin out of control. The Council has changed and grown too much for it not to. The city sprawls out of its walls already, smaller village-like clusters of hives surrounding the fortifications, but still bowing to your government. They demand your attention and continue to push for reforms and clarifications, redefining ancient laws and twisting their own traditions. Tensions grow and pull, and the Council wears down under the strain. Something will have to give, as the distance between personal affairs and political office becomes more and more pronounced with each new batch of wigglers hatched. 

But you will not be the one to cause the break. 

You have spoken with Harlow and Tyrell about it, extensively. You have pointed and hinted to the first winds of an incoming storm. But you will not force their hand to acknowledge it. You know the game too well to do so. You will not turn your back on them, when they need you most, and you will not become the villain they oppose to keep themselves together. You will not antagonize Spit more than you’ve made him grown used to, and you will not irritate Linnea more than she can take. You know better than that. 

So you plan and scheme, and prepare for the disaster that, somehow, you can already tell is coming and yet you dearly wish wouldn’t. 

** ⁂ **

There’s an earthquake, the night before the green new moon. Most of the city withstands it without fuss, structurally speaking, though trolls are jittery and nervous for hours afterwards. You don’t blame them. It’s been sweeps since the city was last attacked by trolls, but you can’t help but keep expecting it to happen, after sweeps upon sweeps of attacks coming with clockwork regularity. You make rounds through the city, checking for damage, but find only broken pottery and messes to be cleaned up, nothing really big. 

You’re glad for that, though too cautious to thank your good fortune out loud, when the next night, under the waning light of the pink moon, several hundred lusii approach the city, their respective child with them. The great doors of the fortified wall slide open with a loud sound as the slow march slowly advances along the main street, flanked at each side by a crowd of excited, eager trolls. By now, the whole thing is almost choreographed; an elaborate performance, half ceremony, half celebration, orchestrated by, who else, Harlow himself. It makes sense, though, functioning as a constant reminder of the reasons behind everything you’ve done so far. It gives trolls something to be excited over, and you something to focus on that isn’t arguing over what law needs revising next. 

“Odd,” Tyrell tells you later, sliding into the empty seat next to yours, “isn’t it?” 

You raise a hand on reflex, ordering another small bottle and a plate for him. The troll behind the bar, who clearly values your continued patronage and more than generous tipping habits, knows better than to make a peep as he places the required items on the bar, and then finds somewhere else to be. 

“Must you, dear?” You muse a little tiredly, watching the greenblood serving himself carefully. 

“Oh, but isn’t tonight a night for games?” He says, smile tugging at the corner of his lip in an expression you reluctantly admit only ever gives to you. 

“I suppose it is,” you concede with a soft sigh, lifting your plate as he does, and taking a small sip of the bitter alcohol. 

It burns all the way down, settling in the pit of your stomach like acid warmth. Outside, there are indeed a lot of games going on, between the children and the various guilds and associations, who are already trying to claim the younglings for themselves. 

“Indeed,” Tyrell shrugs, tone unpleasant. “All I’m saying is that I find it very… odd, how many warmbloods are born each perigee.” 

Which you had already noticed, more than a sweep ago, and had since then been waiting for someone else to realize it. Warmbloods outnumber the coldbloods perhaps three to one by now, which will surely end up being a problem at some point. It’s a delicate thing, to say the least, so you had not found a suitable way of mentioning it to the others without setting tensions high again. You quietly wish Harlow or Alilah would have come to you about this, though, not Tyrell. 

Though at least, you think sourly, taking another small sip, it wasn’t _Spit_. 

“The Great Mother doesn’t want to talk about it,” you admit, clicking your claws on the bar with the ghost of a song you can’t quite remember the words for anymore. 

“ _Odd_ ,” he says again, risking a look around the small room, eyes running over the various trolls busy with their own drinks. 

“Dangerous, you mean.” 

Tyrell snorts, taking another sip of his drink. 

“Everything is dangerous, in the right hands,” he gives you a significant look that you steadfastly refuse to acknowledge. “Otherwise, it’s just odd.” 

You hum a little, taking your time to study the nuances of that comment. A warning, on the surface, but not one you need, so you discard it with a mental shrug. A backhanded compliment, perhaps, though with Tyrell is always hard to tell. You work well together, and he knows it. For all he’s generally irritable, taciturn and not particularly social, he doesn’t want the City to fall. And he’s certainly not a traitor. You are not friends, which suits you both rather well, and if he’s not going to push for a kismesissitude, you’re certainly not going to bring it up. His feelings are his own, but you reckon he knows you will not reciprocate. And to be honest, you would much rather not find yourself in another ashen trio if you can help it. You’ve got your hands full with the one you’re already in as it is. 

“I reckon,” you say after a reasonable length of time, “that the real question is dangerous for _whom_.” 

You always stretch silences if you can, if nothing else because at your age, you’ve grown to enjoy watching people squirm as they wait for you to speak. A petty, meanspirited habit, perhaps, but you’ve long stopped pretending to be sweet. They burned the sweetness out of you a long, long time ago and you’ve never seen any need to try and foster it back. Sweetness often goes hand in hand with weakness, the sort that is unfit to rule. You might not be wholly unkind, but you leave the soft-hearted considerations to trolls that don’t have to answer for anyone’s life but their own. 

“It’s perhaps too much to hope for anyway,” Tyrell drawls, a hint of exhaustion leaking in the back of his voice, “that it won’t come back and blow up in our faces anyway.” 

“Things have a habit of making themselves our problem in the end,” you take another sip, offering him a half-hearted smile. “But that’s just the way things go.” 

Tyrell toasts with his plate, sneer firmly in place. 

“To the way things go, then.” 

In silence, you incline your head and toast back. 

** ⁂ **

Walking around the city soothes you and lets your mind unfold into the most interesting thoughts. It’s a nice change, you think, from the hectic lifestyle you led, prior to the foundation of the City, and something that pleases you in a very private, intimate way. You _like_ the City. You like the little twisting streets and paths and the interesting new ways people come up with to decorate the hives. You like the little corners where merchants tuck in their wares and their stalls. You like the bickering and whining over the most ridiculous, insignificant things. You like the outer walls, wrapped like a mother’s embrace around the original City, thick as five trolls stretching one after the other and taller than fifty standing on each other’s shoulders. It settles your soul and soothes your worries in a way nothing has ever done so before, the certainty that you have both a place and a refuge here. 

You finger the golden bracelet curling around your wrist like a snake made of gold, and smile to yourself as your steps carry you without any conscious thought. 

You think of Before, as often as you can make yourself do so, for you cannot stand the thought of forgetting. You think of the exquisitely ornate rugs decorating your father’s tent and the sound of your mother’s voice as she sang while brushing your hair. You think of the bite of the whip on your naked back and the burn of spit hitting you in the face. You think of your father screaming in the pyre, flames licking his face, and make yourself recall the precise instant your mother wrenched herself free of her captors and threw herself into the fire, unwilling to live on without her kismesis. You think of your father’s matesprit, bargaining for the safety of his children, siblings you’d never felt a stranger to until you were sacrificed to give them a chance of survival. You think of the troll who owned you, once, and his empty promises of safety. You think of his hands caressing your face and his sword bloodstained to remain any and all that you were not to be touched. You think of his sign and the title that he gave you, both of which you still carry today. You think of his men who are now irrevocably yours, in life and death and anything else you could ask of them. 

You think of Harlow, awkward and nervous, speaking of prophecy and second chances, insulting you without meaning to and being twice as infuriating because of it. You think of Spit, dark eyes dangerous even then, challenging and hateful. You think of Tyrell, prim and proper, forever standing on his own, away from everything. You think of Linnea, as feral in the defense of her children as lethargic in the embrace of sleep. You think of Iggy, nonsensical and staggeringly out of touch with reality to the point of being disconcerting. You think of Ulyses, talking big and risking even bigger, always smiling in a way that made your blood boil unpleasantly. You think of Zillah, intimidating, unforgiving and unmovable, wrapping herself around her people like a snake around her nest. You think of Phylis, silly and brilliant and naïve and unstoppable, always moving, always questioning, always _thinking_. You think of Spyros, always serene underneath the deceptive brightness of his personality, always in control even in the face of the impossible, always setting the world in motion by sheer unpredictability. You think of sand and rock under your feet, walking across plains and mountain ranges to reach the cradle of the dream. You think of hunting just barely enough to feed your troupe and rationing up to the last drop of water to prevent deaths you couldn’t afford. You think of hands working in concert to create, rather than destroy. You think of sweat and blood and tears and hopes and dreams, poured into the core of what became more than walls and streets. 

You think of Alilah, walking out of the ocean like a vision of a goddess, clad in foam and mist. You think of her strength to tilt the balance and bring the world itself to heel with little more than a gesture of her hand. You think of the Great Mother emerging from the darkness, like a specter of hell to bring you life again. You think of the Guardian and his price, Life, Blood and Time, and how many ways it could be paid. 

You think of everything you can, because you’ve learned that it takes all too little effort to topple down what took sweeps upon sweeps of work to achieve. The newest children are adapting well to life in the City, and the economy is doing well, and people are keeping busy, but you can’t help the unease welling up somewhere inside you, an anxiousness that makes you realize just how much you’re willing to do to preserve what you have built. There have been a few suspicious fires and reports of missing trolls and missing cattle in the further outposts. Zillah thinks it’s the beginnings of an upcoming attack and most of the Council agrees with her, which is why she and a group of her most trusted rustbloods have spent the last few weeks exploring the outskirts of the forest and patrolling the affected areas, but you’re not so sure. It’s too erratic, too incidental. You miss the straightforwardness of an army at your doorstep. 

You find yourself walking along the market, hands folded behind your back as you run your eyes over the various items in display without really seeing them. 

You’re antsy, for lack of a better word. You doubt anyone else can really see it, but it’s there, writhing under your skin and making you look at everything from a skewed angle. Perhaps next time Zillah drops by to report her findings, you could ask her to sit through one of your fights with Ulyses. You could really use the stress reliever and you don’t really trust yourself to not slit his throat without your auspice present. You grimace slightly at the thought, still somewhat unsure of what to make of your ashen quadrant. You are well aware of the disastrousness that would follow if you and the blueblood were left unchecked, as it could only end with either or both of you dead, but it still doesn’t sit well with you. You suppose it’s partly cultural bias, as tealbloods have never really put much weight behind it, and partly your own arrogance, but you never thought you’d _need_ an auspice. Privately, you always saw the need for an ashen mediator to be a sign of weakness and poor judgment. You always thought you could rise over the instinct and the impulse, if you ever found yourself stuck with a problematic black inclination. You think of Harlow and Alilah and Spit, and the ridiculous quadrant clusterfuck they somehow manage to keep functional with minimum carnage, and you can’t help but feel inadequate with your own situation. Nonetheless, you have an auspice and you do well by her. This is your lot in life, and you’re certain you will eventually find a way to fit quadrants into your life, just not _now_. 

Now you have a mystery to solve, regarding the strange occurrences near the City, and the larger problem with the hatching rates and the population growth and the growing discontent in some sectors of the City, that you’re going to have to solve yourself if no one else will bother to even acknowledge it. You buy yourself a new set of chains for your horns and hum your way back home, mind still locked in the labyrinth of your thoughts. 

The certainty that you will find your answers, however, does not waver even once. 

** ⁂ **

“You’re plotting something.” 

You look up from your desk to find Tyrell leaning against your doorway, squinting at you suspiciously. You blink somewhat, and turn to face him, absently tugging at your clothes to fall properly and then almost demurely folding your hands on your lap. He hates that, you know, when you pretend to be docile and meek. 

“I beg your pardon?” You ask him, voice sickeningly sweet. 

“I said,” Tyrell scoffs, rolling his eyes and standing straight. “You’re plotting something.” 

“Is that an accusation?” You arch an eyebrow at him when he invites himself into the room without permission, closing the door behind him. 

“I didn’t say it was a _bad_ thing, did I?” He arches both eyebrows at you, leaning back to rest against the closed door in a subtle threat. Luckily – for him – the gesture amuses you more than it annoys you. “But you’ve got something brewing.” 

You’re silent for a long moment, just measuring him. And when you’re done taking in his postures and his clothes and whatever he’s done with his hair today, you keep on being silent, just for the sake of being irritating. It’s a childish thing to do, you are well aware, but there’s always a grim satisfaction in pressing the buttons of the one troll who delights the most in pressing yours. 

“I always do,” you lean back in your chair, arching an eyebrow challengingly. You will not tell him to leave, simply because saying so would be admitting how much it irks you to have him barging freely into your personal space. “Do not be droll, dear, it does not suit you.” 

The term of endearment, dripping sarcasm as it is, scores you a point when he flinches subtly. Not that you’re still keeping score, but it’s a nice pretense. You both declared a draw a very long time ago. 

“Think very carefully and measure your step,” his voice carries a bitter note in it, “did you not tell me so, a long time ago?” 

“I did,” you offer him an exquisitely measured smile. “I make a habit of offering sound advice.” 

“Then take your own,” he collapses on the chair opposite to yours with an air of tired gracefulness that tempts you. Nothing more, nothing deeper. But the temptation is there, it has always been. “Your peace or my words.” 

“I reckon I can very well manage both,” your smile doesn’t waver, and to your credit, you do not reach for a fan, close by as they are. 

There is a very tense silence, then, as he holds your gaze with his own. His brow is, as always, bent into an ugly frown and his lips are pursed into an unhappy line. You fancy, as you have before, at times of idle thought, that he could be so very handsome if he didn’t make it a sport of being odious. And yet, unlike Spit, his efforts don’t quite diminish all his virtues. 

“You shouldn’t go,” he blurts out, settling and folding his arms up defensively over his chest. “No one will follow you.” 

You read in between – how could you not read in between – and find yourself giving him a quiet, tired smile. 

“Some would,” you shrug. “More than anyone else, and who else would go with them? They’d want one of us with them, and none of the others have even _realized_ it.” 

You can’t tell, precisely, if it is fear or hatred that makes his expression turn into a delicate mask that betrays nothing at the cost of nothing. He tenses horribly – another point to you, but you’re still not keeping score – when you stand up, crossing the two steps to sit your weight on his thigh. 

“Do not ask me to go with you,” he murmurs as he lets you tilt his chin up, and then you’re breathing the same air. 

The tension thrills you, but more than that, the clarity delights you. 

You don’t hate him. He might tempt you still, but you will not hate him, not after this. You can tell the moment the mask shatters and he lounges forward in a slow arc. You can tell the moment he realizes his mistake, as you tilt your chin up and he bows his head in defeat. His lips brush your throat, in neither kiss nor bite. 

“I will not ask you for anything you would give, Tyrell,” you smile at the ceiling, voice neutral enough to not rub salt on the freshly torn wound. “Not now, not ever.” 

“Then I will not offer that which you would not take,” he presses the words to your throat, and you can feel the physical effort it is, to not simply shove you off. 

You take pity on him, but know better than to let him know, so you merely rest your lips against his forehead and enjoy the way he shudders under your touch. 

“I don’t want to go,” you confess, long after you’ve both learned to breathe again and the contact has become numb. 

_Then don’t_ , he doesn’t say, because he knows better than that. 

“I’m sure you’ll think of something else,” he rumbles quietly, voice hollow. “You always do.” 

You want to laugh, but you refrain, certain you might end up crying instead. Instead, you shoulder on. 

“Yes,” you sigh against the crown of his head, “I suppose I always do.” 

** ⁂ **

“But that is not the matter at—Alilah?” 

The seadweller is no longer paying attention to you, staring out the window with a haunted expression on her face. You give half a step towards her, before the bracelet on your wrist flares to life and you feel your mind forcefully pried open. Absently, you realize your body is screaming, but your mind is too busy contemplating the swift progression of images entering it, to make it stop. You see fire and teeth, hear screaming in a voice not your own, and yet find yourself full of a strangely detached serenity. Bizarrely, you find all your thoughts irrevocably turning to Zillah. It’s over in an instant, and as you stumble slightly, trying to regain your balance after being forcefully returned to your body, you risk a look around the room. Both Linnea and Tyrell look much the same as you do, confused and disturbed. But when you turn your eyes to Alilah, you find her staring at the window with a bitter smile on her face. 

“What—“ 

“So it begins,” the seadweller whispers, quiet enough you’re certain it was not meant to be heard. 

Before you can question her, however, a golden light flashes in the distance. It aims towards Alilah, causing the window to explode into dust on contact before hitting the seadweller and extinguishing itself. For a split second, it seems like nothing else will happen, but then the light gathers violently around Alilah, crackling loudly but not enough to drown the deafening screech it rakes from the depths of her throat. The strength behind the light is such that it lifts her off the ground, body limp and almost weightless. Then it dies out once more, and with it her voice, as she crumples to her knees, one hand clawing desperately on her arm. Beneath her fingers, light reforms into gold, hugging her skin as tight as the bracelet on your own wrist. But the shape is familiar, disturbingly so. Except the once rust colored stones are now as fuchsia as her blood, and the size is too small to belong to the woman on whose wrist you last saw it rest. The woman you were just thinking of. 

“Zillah is dead,” Alilah whispers, voice cracking under an unpleasant chuckle. “The Blacksmith has fallen.” 

In the distance, something grand and terrifying roars, and the night is once more lit up with unnatural light. Outside the city walls, the forest burns. Inside the room, no one makes a sound. 

“Fangs and fire,” Tyrell mutters, and the sound of his voice makes you turn to him. You can see his mind already turning, behind his eyes. “ _Fangs and fire_ , Dhraid—“ 

“I know,” you say, as you fold yourself to your knees to tend to Alilah, and whatever seems to have taken hold of her mind. “The missing cattle, the resent fires.” 

“I don’t like where this is going,” Linnea says at long last, voice numb. She swallows hard and fingers the gold band around her wrist. “You don’t really think—“ 

“Tyrell,” you make your voice crack like a whip, booking no objections in your tone. “Gather the western garrisons and get ready to head out. Linnea, send word to the seadwellers for Spit to come back and order the patrols to ensure the children are behind the outer wall.” 

“But—“ 

“Come,” Tyrell pulls Linnea along by the elbow, expression grim. “Do not be late,” he tells you, offering a razor sharp smirk as he goes. 

You grant him a humorless smile in return, before you look at the seadweller in your arms. For all her strength, she looks almost childlike, tears steadily falling down her eyes and a nasty, hollow laughter making her entire body tremble. Her eyes stare at her hands, seeing something you cannot. The thing in the forest roars again, closer now, with enough power to make the ground shake ever so slightly. You do not have time for this. 

“Alilah,” you say, gently tilting her face up so you can look at her. “ _Undying_.” 

You are no psychic, but you don’t need to read her mind to recognize the terrified madness coiling in her eyes. Now you can hear the screams from within the walls, voices yelling for weapons and formations, no doubt needled into action by the others. The roaring echoes again, threatening. 

“She’s dead, Dhraid,” Alilah says, laughing and crying all at once, working herself up into something unsightly. “She’s _gone_ , only _not_ , I can feel—“ 

The slap echoes in the abrupt silence of the room. You watch impassively as the seadweller falls to the ground, too lose-limbed still to resist the strike. And even so, your hand aches and burns all the way to your elbow. You ignore the sensation as you rise to your feet, jaw set. 

“I’m not your moirail,” you tell her, curtly. “Frankly, I don’t care what you can or cannot feel; this is not the time, Alilah.” 

“Zillah is _dead_ ,” she snarls at you, with an edge of feral wrath that almost makes you step back. 

Out of sheer stubborn will, you do not. You cannot. 

“Your people need you,” you snarl back, as with a flick of your wrists fans slide into your hands from the depths of your sleeves. “ _Our_ people need you. So you will stand up, right now, and you will walk out that door and be exactly what they need to see: a confident, strong warrior determined to fight with and for them.” 

She looks so _small_. She’s so old and so strong and yet, you can’t handle how small and fragile she looks, sitting there. Her face is like the faces of so many young warriors, confronting their first real loss in a battlefield. The crippling despair and the incomprehension of such deep pain, tearing down to the depths of their souls and forcing them to reevaluate everything they thought they knew about the world. And yet, she has killed before. She has met death head on, in the battlefield and in her life in the depths. Surely, she cannot be this naïve. Surely, there is something else in this mess of light and bracelets and the silences about the aftermath of the Pact. If Zillah is truly dead – and you do not stop to fully consider the consequences – there is nothing left for you to do, but avenge her. That is the natural way of things, the truth all trolls learn sooner or later. 

But there’s something coiling around Alilah, something venomous that threatens the very nature of her being. She and Zillah are not – were not – that close, to justify such a reaction upon learning of her death. Greater things are in motion here, you can tell, things you do not understand and you’re beginning to think, you might not want to. Even so, the choice to isolate herself with her burdens has always been Alilah’s; the choice to keep silent and removed, driving a wedge between herself and the rest of you. You do not allow yourself to feel even a smidgen of pity for her, however, hardening yourself against it. Because it doesn’t matter, in the end, whatever has been done to her or what she does or does not know. The roar echoes once more, and now the ground is definitely shaking under your feet, making you unsteady. 

“How can you—“ 

“Because it’s my duty,” you say, coolly. “Because it’s your duty, too. People die, Alilah, but the dead care for the dead.” You offer her the ghost of a smile as she slowly pulls herself upright again. “And the living must care for the living.” 

“I can’t—“ 

“It’s not a matter of what you can or cannot do,” you offer her a hand. After a moment of hesitation, she takes it, and you tighten your grip almost to the point of pain. “You _will_. It’s just that simple.” 

“I—“ 

“Come along now,” you tug on her hand, expression resolute. “We have a dragon to slay. We can talk after we’re done.” 

She laughs again, that unpleasant sound like claws scratching glass, but she follows you. By the time you step into the courtyard, demanding updates from the various trolls around you, she has set her jaw and fixed her expression into something grim. You can see the cracks in her mask, but her eyes are dry and her hands are no longer shaking. 

It’s enough, you suppose. 

** ⁂ **

The aftermath is quiet, in direct contrast to the sheer magnitude of the battle you just waged. Slaying a dragon is no easy feat, not even with Iggy losing his temper and finally displaying his powers in full. The forest itself rose to trap the beast, but even then, the destruction was substantial. The battle was a success, as casualties did not average above two hundred and the City behind the outer walls resisted almost unscathed. It was the tinier, newer settlements that suffered the worst of it. And the rustbloods. The rustbloods have been dealt a blow you’re not entirely sure they will ever recover from. 

Zillah, the Blacksmith, is dead. 

She died fighting, the survivors of her scouting group were eager to tell anyone who was willing to listen. She died fighting, chin held up high in the face of something so unbearably larger than herself, and she died without giving one step back. But already there is an emptiness among you, and a keen sense of incompleteness that makes victory all the more bitter. You spend the rest of the night and most of the morning sitting among the crowd of rustbloods, as Linnea and Ulyses are pulled into their piles and stories are shared by all, baring the depth of your loss. You share a few, quiet and somewhat distant, but it seems to be enough. They can tell this is not how you handle death, and that your loss is different from theirs. They appreciate it, nonetheless, and you have done your best so that they’ll never know that you will feel her loss for many reasons other than she was a quadrantmate, in a quadrant you never really wanted. 

Alilah finds you near noon, sitting by the door of Zillah’s quarters, where all rustbloods in the City – at least those old enough to have made the journey with her – have squeezed themselves into a giant pile of uneasy sleep. Ulyses and Linnea are buried somewhere in the mass of bodies, lost to their own grief, while you stand watch. 

“I brought you water,” she says quietly, crouching by your side to offer you the jug. 

You give her a thin smile as thanks and take a good drink, closing your eyes as it slides down your throat with welcome coolness against the stifling heat in the room. She takes the jug from your hands again, claws clicking on its sides. If you care to look for them, you could see the hints of nervousness all over her body language. You take perhaps three heartbeats to decide you’d rather pursue that nervousness than stay where you are, where you’re neither needed nor entirely wanted. 

“Come,” you say, rolling back to your feet with a rustle of cloth. Out of respect for the rustbloods, you’re wearing a plain tunic in teal, and a billowing black skirt. No great ornaments and no detailed brocade. You feel oddly naked and oddly at peace, in turns, as even after all this time, you still prefer to go without a sign, than to wear _his_. Alilah stares at you through hooded eyes, so you soften your mouth into a wry smile. “I did promise we would talk.” 

“We could talk later,” her voice is low and controlled, but there’s a slight twitch to her whole body that she either can’t or doesn’t know how to control. 

“We’re awake now,” you lay a hand on her shoulder and tilt your head, gently pushing her towards the corridor. Through the thick curtains closing off the windows, the vicious sunlight pours in a little, giving the hallway a strange, ethereal look. “You’re upset.” 

“So are you,” she mutters, a little unsure. 

It’s strange, how awkwardly she carries herself, and how badly it suits her. Far too much of her personality is based on her confidence in herself and her place in the world, and you think that perhaps this is the first time she has stumbled like this in her whole life. You know, somehow, that she will recover though. It is merely a lesson she must learn, and perhaps she will even walk out of this being stronger for it. 

“I am,” you admit with a light shrug, casually unfolding a fan to provide a slight breeze against the stifling noon heat. “Though perhaps not for the reasons I am expected to. You may tell me what’s on your mind, now, if you wish.” 

“You’re not my moirail,” she arches an eyebrow at you, mouth twisted into a displeased line. 

“I’m not, and I’d rather not be,” your steps are slow and measured, and far quieter than hers. “But I am your friend, and I will gladly listen if you want me to.” 

You walk along the corridors, ignoring the closed doors and following a careless path along the labyrinth of rooms and halls that make up the House of the Ten. On each side of you, the rock has been carved with the signs of the Pact – _their_ signs, not yours, not anywhere – and small reliefs about stories and battles and trials that had to be overcome before the City was founded. You let the silence stretch for as long as she will have it, simply waiting. Often, you’ve learned, waiting is all that’s necessary. Trolls are not patient creatures by nature, and thus they appreciate it all the more, when they are given enough time to gather themselves. 

“You would not listen to me, before,” you are rather pleased to note it’s curiosity coloring her tone, rather than accusation. 

“No, I would not,” you tilt your chin up slightly, standing by your choice. “It was not the time.” 

“But it is now?” She sounds tired and frustrated, but not angry. She wants to understand, and perhaps more importantly, she wants to _learn_. That is what you like best about her, beyond her natural talent to lead and her ability to make everything fascinating by virtue of being related to her. Alilah truly values the power of knowledge above anything else. “What’s so different now?” 

“Now, we are ourselves again,” you arch an eyebrow at her. “Now there is no dragon spitting fire at our door, nor are there scared, confused trolls clamoring for their leaders. So we may rest and cease to be leaders to go on being ourselves.” 

“Your auspice died,” there’s severity in her tone, that tells you about her expectations and how much your behavior puzzles her. 

“Many trolls died,” you reply, just as severely, subtly changing the rhythm of your fan. “It’s what trolls do, Alilah, we _die_.” Her expression betrays surprise for a moment, before sliding into a carefully blank mask. You sigh. “Peace will not change what we are. This is not a city of merchants or workers or farmers. This is a city built on the back of warriors and survivors. Every troll knows each fight might very well be the last one, because every troll knows that which lives exists only to die.” 

“And the dead must care for the dead,” she intones, irony coloring her tone. “And thus the living care for the living.” 

“We die,” you repeat, shaking your head at hear. “We end, like everything else. It’s the nature of things. Sooner or later, we will all die. But we cannot stop and mourn those who are gone forever. We cannot cease to live for the sake of those who’re already dead. We are all going to die, but by the time we die, we will damn better be certain we’ve lived the way we wanted.” 

“You talk like Spyros,” Alilah scoffs somewhat, seemingly not sure if this is a good thing or not. “Or Phylis.” 

“They’re survivors, Alilah, they know this. Most trolls in the City do.” You tilt your head slightly to the side. “Even the rustbloods will recover. They don’t mourn the dead, it is only in honor of their first and only leader that they take the time to grieve. Tomorrow night they will go back to fulfilling their duties, because they’re alive and she’s not.” You soften your tone. “We cannot do for her in death, what we did not do in life.” After a long moment, you risk aiming for the wound. “You have killed before. You are, in fact, extremely good at killing.” She smiles humorlessly at that, so you push forward. “You have seen many other trolls die before.” 

She swallows hard, lowering her eyes. 

“I did not know them,” _so they didn’t matter_. She seems troubled by the words, even though you know there’s truth in them. “It’s different.” 

“It’s always hard,” you turn a corner, keeping to the wall, as you venture into the open corridor circling around the central courtyard. “When we lose those we care about. Our grief is our own, but we must all move on at some point. It’s the curse of living a long life, you are bound to be left behind at some point.” 

Something dark crosses over her features, hardening them but not quite hiding the conflict underneath. Something is eating at her, you can tell, but you are not sure if or how you should ask her about it. You are not, after all, her moirail. It is always so delicate, how you handle these things, always toeing a line that mustn’t be crossed. 

“This is not about Zillah,” you say after you’ve abandoned the courtyard, entering another corridor. “Is it.” 

“No,” she admits, steps loud in comparison to yours. “It is not.” 

You wait until you enter the grand hall where the Council sits to discuss official matters. In the daylight, the room looks significantly larger. You do not move to take a seat, simply content to keep yourself moving. Walking is good for talking about difficult things. 

“It’s part of the Pact,” she says eventually, cradling the water jug to her body, eyes fixed on the floor. “When the Council dies, the Pact will live on. That’s why he marked us, so we would remember what we’d done, no matter how much time went on.” On her arm, Zillah’s bracelet has become her own; it suits her in an eerie way. “You will die, but the will of the Pact will go on after you’re gone.” 

“And what will happen when we all die?” You ask, making careful note of her choice of pronouns. 

“Well.” She smiles, bitter and bare, and shrugs. “I’ll be there.” 

Your smile fades. 

“And what happens when _you_ die?” Your voice comes, regretfully, a tad sharper than you intended. 

Alilah’s smile turns ominous instead. 

“I _will_ be there.” You stop walking, but she advances a few steps more before turning to look at you over your shoulder. “Life, Blood and Time.” She places the jug on the table, but does not face you directly. “I am the Life. Others will come, one day, to be the Blood and the Time, but _I am the Life_.” She tilts her head up, staring at the ceiling, every line of her body screaming about exhaustion. “I will be here when nothing else remains, and I will remember, then, what we did and what price we paid for it. One day, that,” she points a claw to the coil of gold resting on your wrist, eyes narrowed, “will be on my skin, because you’ll be dead and I will not.” 

You are aware your hand has stopped moving the fan. You are aware you could really use a stiff drink. You are aware you desperate need to sit down. Instead, you fold the fan closed, and stand up a little straighter. 

“Why?” You quietly congratulate yourself for keeping your tone neutral. 

“Because it needed to be done.” She shrugs and leans her hip against the table, fingering the mouth of the jug. “Because he used my words against me. Because he’s omniscient and he knew he was going to agree to our demands before we made them, and so he knew I’d agree to the terms.” She smiles, then, baring every single teeth. “Because I can endure it, and not go mad. Because I chose the Council and the Council chose this.” Her voice softens painfully, and she is once more the terribly fragile monster you had to slap sense into, hours prior. “Because you are all I have left, and I wanted to believe you would live longer than this.” 

You swallow against a parched throat, meeting her eyes head on. You will not look away. You will not bow your head. You respect her too much, to do so. 

“Do they know?” 

“No,” Alilah shakes her head. “…Alston knows a little, but not all. I would rather Harlow didn’t know at all.” 

“It is not my secret to share,” you say simply, inclining your head to let her know you’ll keep your silence. You let out another soft sigh. “May I ask why would you tell me, and not your moirail or your matesprit?” 

“Because you don’t care.” She laughs a little, the same unpleasant, barely contained sound as before. “Because you never care, you just do what needs to be done and don’t make it personal.” She licks her lips. “Because out of all of them, I have never seen you bow your head before anything.” 

You cross the distance in four steps and wrap your arms around her before you can rethink the impulse. She stiffens in your grasp, but then melts into it, sagging against you. 

“I care,” you tell her, tugging her head down so she can rest her forehead on your shoulder. “I care enough I know not to make it personal. I care enough I will never bow down to something standing between me and what I want.” You swallow hard. “I care enough to know it’s okay to be scared.” 

You say nothing, when you feel cold tears sliding down your neck, but in the absolute silence of your mind, you make your choice. 

** ⁂ **

“There must be another way.” 

Harlow looks utterly miserable, but you can’t help but smile a little at him. He sounds like a grub being denied candy, and the ridiculousness of the comparison is enough to lighten some of the weight in your heart. You reach a hand and pat his knee, shaking your head. 

“There’s no one else,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Iggy wouldn’t give them what they need. Phylis will not go without Spyros, and the purplebloods won’t stay in line if he leaves. You need Tyrell to decipher the law and keep some semblance of order. You are not going anywhere, and neither are Alilah or Spit. Ulyses knows absolutely nothing about the greater administration of the City and Linnea is grieving.” Harlow makes a small, unhappy noise, passing air through his teeth. “I have the experience. I know the terrain. I’m well liked and well respected. But above all, _there is no one else_.” 

Harlow looks away. He knows all that, of course. He knows that there is no choice, and worse still, that even if it were a choice, it would still not be his to make. You wish you could make this easier on him, but you are already making it easier on everyone. 

“I _know_ that,” and he indulges himself by leaning against your shoulder so he can whine properly. Because you love him dearly, you let him. “I just don’t like it. If we sat down to think about it, we could probably figure out something out, though.” 

“Perhaps,” you tap the crown of his head with your fan, smiling wryly. “But there is no time left, either.” 

“It’s not _fair_.” 

You can’t help but laugh a little at that, amused by the vehemence in his voice. You gently push him aside, standing up to stretch yourself, and look up at the sky, dotted with stars. 

“It is not,” you agree, then look down at him with a sardonic smile. “But out of all the great injustices I have endured in my life, Harlow, this is by far the least crippling.” 

His face crumples as he sinks his head between his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sometimes, you feel guilty for using his knowledge of your past against him, but you tell yourself you’re doing it for his own good. You smile at him, shrugging lightly and making the chains in your horns jiggle. He is still too soft, sometimes, and you worry about him. You worry about all you do that he and the others don’t even notice, and wonder who will do it once you’re gone. But you suppose he’s better off now, than he used to be. He needs to be soft, to buffer the harshness in Alilah and to protect others from the sharpest edges in Spit. He needs to be soft to talk sense into Phylis and Spyros, and keep them grounded to the world outside each other. He needs his softness to approach Tyrell without setting off every single paranoid instinct in the greenblood. He needs to be soft to allow Linnea to be herself, unrepentantly, and thus show the true greatness she often hides behind her laziness. And he needs his softness to handle Ulyses and Iggy without crumbling before their combined efforts to drive people insane. He is, in the end, the softness and the gentleness that the City needs to hoard at its core, because after all these sweeps of hardships and struggles, he among them all has earned the right to it. 

“Don’t be,” you say, smiling. “It will be alright.” 

“What in the world am I supposed to do without you?” He looks oddly small, as he asks, and you feel a bittersweet warmth filling you, as he acknowledges you for who you are. 

“Endure, Harlow,” you sigh, closing your eyes against the breeze pouring in from the sea. “Endure and move on.” 

** ⁂ **

You find Ulyses in the workshop attached to the forge. Zillah’s apprentices have already reopened it, and, as you predicted, returned to their daily grind. The blueblood is braiding a leather whip, fingers moving like a spider’s legs as he pulls and twists the strips into the desired shape. You feel a twinge of something unpleasant curling in the pit of your stomach as you watch him work, something feral and displeased that cries out for violence against your better judgment. You steel your resolve and force yourself to ignore the emotions warring in your mind as you approach him, expression grim. 

You have not talked to him in private since Zillah died, you had not dared, but now you don’t have a choice anymore. 

“I heard you’re leaving,” he says after a moment, grunting a little with the effort of pulling the leather in place. 

“I am,” you nod, stepping closer but still keeping your distance. 

He hums a little, frowning. You hate this side of him more than anything else, because it’s so unlike the bumbling fool he presents himself as most of the time. He used to annoy you, from the moment you met him. His inability to filter any thought crossing his mind and his need to put it in his mouth, no matter the consequences. You took him for a fool, despite knowing he couldn’t be, if he had gathered his people and led them on his own for so long. And yet… and yet it wasn’t until he showed himself ruthless and remorseless to you, that you began to truly hate him. You look at him and can’t help but think that he could be so much more. It rakes you inside, seeing him willingly wasting his potential for the sake of a pointless joke. Most of all, you hate him for showing you this side of him, for making you hate him this much, and then not being able to handle it. Your entire relationship is a metaphor for the true failings of his personality, and oh, you _hate_ it. 

“Is it because of me?” He asks then, tying up a knot in the first braid and cutting off the excess leather without really looking. “’cause Zillah’s gone and there’s no one to keep us in check before we spiral off in fuck all violence and start a civil war?” 

You hate him because he’s perceptive, when he bothers to look, and he never knows when to keep his insight to himself. You feel your lips trying to curl into a sneer and hide them behind the fan, rather than try to curb the urge. 

“Yes,” you admit, but force yourself not to leave it at that. “But I am not petty enough to ignore the fact there are many other reasons for it.” 

He pauses from his work to look at you, wide eyes slightly narrowed and face slack. He tilts his head to the side, thinking, for a very long moment. Then he seems to find what he was looking for, because he turns back to his whip. 

“Once upon a time,” he says, voice mellowing out into a pleasant rumble, “there was a boy who wanted to be a hero.” He smiles, dipping his hands in oil and caressing the leather affectionately. “He desperately, fervently wanted to be a hero. Problem was, this little boy was a coward and didn’t know it, so he threw himself into war, thinking he knew what he was doing. He did not. And then, as if his own fears weren’t enough to make him run away, the world decided to fucking fall to pieces at his feet, taking away every certainty, every safety, he’d once had.” 

“He’s still not a hero,” you say, unable to keep the slight snide undertone off your voice. 

“No, he’s not,” Ulyses laughs, and gives you a wide smirk, full of crooked fangs. “But he learned, after all was said and done, that he didn’t need to be. Heroes belong in stories, and life is not a story. Try as you might, you’ll never get your happy ending, because there are no endings. You die, and the rest of the world goes on without you. It took the boy a lot of painful lessons to learn and understand that. This isn’t a story and we’re not heroes. We’re ourselves and we do the best we can to stay alive and maybe enjoy a little happiness while we can. And fuck whoever doesn’t like it.” 

He puts the braid down and stands up, looking up at you unguardedly. He looks old and worn, with lines of laughter pulling at his eyes and a certain self-deprecating tilt to his lips. You take a deep breath and return the favor, lowering the fan. You stand there for a long, long time, basking in the unsaid, and realizing it is better off that way. 

“Don’t be a hero, Dhraid, the Orator,” he bows to you, “it’s not worth it. Well met, and may good fortune walk beside you, wherever you may go.” 

You bow back, and then walk away, steps unhurried. All that needed to be done, is done. 

** ⁂ **

You stop atop a hill, looking back to see the crowd of trolls trailing after you, and in the distance, where the small valley climbs up towards the cliffs by the sea, the City standing tall and proud. You feel the breeze brushing past you into the woods just ahead, dancing quietly towards the unknown. You commit the scene to memory, so that it will be one day part of Before. You look at the hopeful, excited expressions among the crowd that has chosen to follow you, and smile to yourself as you see the mix of bloods and traditions willing to take up the road again. You wonder if one day you will regret this, but find you can’t bring yourself to care. This is what’s needed to be done, and whether it’s right or wrong will only matter to those that survive it. So the only thing you can do is make yourself survive it. 

You lost your sign and your title a long time ago, and have since rebuilt those you were given into something you can call your own. You will not go down before adversity, nor will you shy away from the duty you have chosen to accept. No matter what you’re called, what sign you wear, you have not forgotten who you are, nor has it really changed in the end. This is where you belong, and the certainty that no matter what happens you will always have a place here soothes your soul. You are not abandoning your home. You are simply spreading your wings and making yourself a new one, without discarding the old one. You smile as you start walking again, stepping under the shade of the trees with your head up high. 

You don’t look back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay, RL got in the way in a very unpleasant way. :( But yay, Dhraid! I think Dhraid is one of my favorite trolls in the Pact. She's kind of terrifying in a very affable way. It's also a shorter chapter than the last few, but I blame that on the fact Dhraid does not take nearly as long to sort her shit in order. ~~Harlow, I'm looking at you, dude.~~
> 
> Also, did I just turn Condesce's bling into a plotpoint? Why yes, I did. Make of that what you will.
> 
> Next chapter should be out in a week or two, provided I can catch up with my schedule and get back on my feet properly. I wonder, though, if I should start taking bets on people guessing who gets to die next. Because that's still totally a thing that's happening.
> 
> Whoops.


	10. Purple ☥ Destroyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Betrayal.

** Purple ☥ Destroyer **

The moment you cross the imposing outer walls of the City, you feel yourself begin to relax. Your purplebloods disband at a slight gesture of your hand, turning to their hives and their quadrantmates with quiet relief. You take another moment to breathe in air that is not stale and poisoned by danger, and begin the slow trek back home along the main street. Trolls scurry around you, though a few of the younger children make a game of leaping between your legs in each step. You’re tired and worn and dirty, but you still muster up a mock growl that sends the pack of rascals squealing away into their lusii’s arms. It’s a game you like to play, with those who are still young enough to not know the meaning of the bracelet in your left arm, and that are not cowed by anything other than your size. You snarl and growl at them, threatening to eat them in one bite, and amuse yourself with their tests of courage and how they push themselves to taunt you despite the danger. They look at Phylis with longing and envy, when she sits on your shoulder and refuses to be afraid of you, and take her as an example of bravery and confidence. 

You ignore the exhaustion gnawing at your bones as you play games the entire way back to the House of the Ten, absently teaching the City’s children how to handle fear and how to be strong in the ways that really matter. Not that anyone but Phylis notices it, but it’s alright. It’s just how it always goes. As you ascend the staircase, three steps at the time, you run into Harlow as he walks outside. 

“You look like shit,” the prophet tells you, in that wry tone of his that means he’s all but physically restraining himself to resist the urge to nag. 

“Must look how I feel, then,” you retort, flashing him a hint of fang. “Just got back.” 

“Phylis is in her workshop, I think,” Harlow offers you a gentle curve of lips, almost indulgent. “She’s been an absolute terror, please go shoosh her down before she decides to blow us all up out of spite.” 

You laugh, loud and booming, because yes. Your Phylis would do that, if crossed. Very dangerous business, that, crossing her. You laugh at the notion of shooshing her down, as well, but that’s an inside joke the prophet has no business knowing and you doubt he even suspects. You shrug at him, casually looking at him up and down, as if to try and find a fault or a change from the last time you saw him. He looks much the same as always, though, wry and nervous and quietly resigned to things you’d rather not know. 

“Schedule a meeting for tomorrow night, will you? I’ve got interesting things to say.” 

Mostly the same interesting things that are already entering the gossip mill, given what loose tongues your purplebloods have, if you don’t warn them beforehand about it. You don’t stop to hear Harlow’s answer, venturing into the House without looking back. You’ve always been quietly impressed with the way the House of the Ten ended up being built, because it is somehow designed to accommodate you without making you feel cramped at every turn. You can only guess what it feels like, for the rest, to walk under tall, vaulted ceilings and wide corridors that don’t twist so much as gently bump into each other. Steps quiet, you head up to the second floor, heading for the room that was once Phylis’ personal quarters and which has since been transformed into a workshop. You don’t bother knocking, because Phylis never bothers to actually lock the door; she just closes it to muffle some of the noise. 

There she is, fists clenched around her tools, eyes glaring murder and mouth set into a lipless line, boiling inwards, festering. She's mad at you, your Phylis, and she's mad enough to not care to hide it. She puts the tools back on the table, wordless, and stalks away without looking back. Muted and almost contrite, you follow. You will follow her to the ends of the world, if she asks you. You'll rake yourself in hot coils if it pleases her. You'll bleed yourself dry if it amuses her. She’s the one certainty life has ever afforded you, so why wouldn't you? You follow and ponder as you're wont to do, over and over again, that your father would call this weakness. Once for her caste, twice for the depth of your devotion. But isn't she as fierce as you? Isn't she your equal? You were hatched the same sweep, on the very same perigee. You almost suspect it was also the same night. Why not? She fits on your shoulder and at your side, in battle and in game. She shares with you her anger and her joy, her grief and her doubts. You do the same and always, always, the scales stay the same. So why would it be madness to devote yourself to the other half of your soul? Why would it be unwise to assume that if you came together into this world, you won't leave it together as well? You don't remember life before Phylis. You don't let yourself remember life without Phylis. She is the air you breathe, the water you drink, the sharpness of your blade and the warmth of your triumph. 

So why, oh why, when you look at her, proud and self-possessed, your hornbeds ache and you feel the pressing, burning urge to wrap yourself around her and hide her from the world? Why do your horns insist on singing the siren song of death until your eyes are tempted to cry? 

“Look at you,” she says, starting a fire in the small pit in a corner of your bathroom. The sandalwood burns quietly, filling the room with a soothing scent that doesn’t quite pacify your nerves. “I swear to fucking god, just what the hell did you pick up a fight with, a herd of dragons?” She turns to you, once the fire is stable. “What are you waiting for? Get those rags off already!” 

Your smile vanishes under her withering glare, shoulders hunching slightly in repentance. Your Phylis does not take kindly to mockery, less so mockery of her concern. And even though your amusement at her rage is born of fondness, you know better than to test her patience. As you remove first your shoes, your armbands and your pants, she busies herself filling up a large pot with water from the tap. It takes her strength and two projections to move the thing onto the fire so it’ll heat up, but you don’t bother to offer help. When she needs your help, she asks for it, and you’re not naïve enough to think unasked assistance would be welcome. The one thing you’ll never do is to patronize her, because that might be the one thing she won’t ever forgive you. 

Her plumbing, as she calls it, was the reason she had to stay back while you left. You understand that her frustration with the whole affair is mostly directed at the circumstances, rather than yourself. There’s nothing you can say to make it better, considering you have felt the weight of her absence just as keenly. Unfortunately, you cannot procrastinate removing the chainmail and the shirt under it any longer, and as you wrestle it free of your horns, you hear the sharp intake of breath and the way the temperature in the room, despite the fire, drops abruptly. 

“What exactly,” Phylis hisses, eyes narrowed to slits, “did they do to you?” 

You look down at your side, to avoid looking at the murder in her eyes, and study the crusted blood over the slash of a sword. It was, admittedly, a very good strike. You knew it was coming, but you couldn’t quite avoid it. It made crushing the culprit’s skull in your hand all the more satisfying. You shrug in lieu of a reply and simply fold down on the floor, at her mercy. She hisses air between her teeth, still boiling with aimless anger, as she goes about scrubbing the crust of mud and grime and blood off your skin. If the water is a little too hot against the half-healed wound, or her claws rake a little too hard against the tattoo on your back, you keep it to yourself, basking in the attention. By the time she undoes your braids and lathers the whole mass of hair, she’s burned off most of her anger and you’ve stopped feeling nauseous with baseless worry. The water’s lukewarm when she finishes rinsing suds out of your hair, and she’s drenched, white clothes nearly transparent and sagging under the added weight. You pull her back against you, hands on her shoulders, and press your face against her back. You can’t see it, but you know where it is, your sign on her back, just like hers is on yours. Because you’ll always have each other’s back, no matter what. Because your father would have called her weakness and cursed you for bringing his dynasty low, and you would have still chosen her. Because she abandoned her people before they could abandon her, and she still chose you. 

“I missed you,” you whisper, straining to hear the sound of her heart rattling under her ribs. 

She curls herself against you, shifting so she can rest her cheek against your chest, and you finally relax as you wrap yourself around her. 

“Welcome home,” she sighs, drained of anger and worry, pliant when your mouth finds hers. 

“I’ll take you hunting,” you promise, kissing along her jaw. “Something shitton times bigger than us, and we’ll get to kill it really fucking dead.” 

“I’m _pissed_ at you,” she hisses, claws raking against the spiral bases of your horns, making you shiver all the way down to your bones. “You should have taken me along.” 

“I should have,” you admit easily, because it’s the truth, sliding on the tiles to rest on your side. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not supposed to go out and hoard all the fun,” her teeth sink on the underside of your jaw until blood wells into her mouth. She knows they’ll see the bite tomorrow and wonder, but she also knows they won’t dare ask. “Who the fuck will steer you right if I’m not there?” 

“No one else.” You run a hand down her shoulders, along her back, all the way to the swell of her hip, and then back. It’s reassuring, to feel the solid frame of her body beneath your hands. “I’ll make it up to you, Girlie, I’ll take you hunting and we’ll have all the fun for ourselves.” 

“Damn right you’re making it up to me!” She bites your hand, when you try to rub your knuckles against her cheek. It makes you smile. “Now let me look at that wound. Only you, Big Brute, running off and coming back bleeding. I should rub salt on it, see if that teaches you not to leave me behind.” 

You wrap a hand around her wrist, stopping it from reaching your side. 

“Later,” your voice takes on a conciliatory tone, almost reverent. “Later.” 

You meet her eyes as they widen, narrow and then light up as she laughs. 

“I swear to fucking god,” she says, pulling her hand free of your hold and reaching again to rake the bases of your horns with her claws. “You’ll be the death of me.” 

But still, even as you pull her close to fill in the gaps in you, the song between your horns refuses to quiet down. 

** ☥ **

There is grim, sullen silence in the aftermath of your report to the members of the Pact. 

There is trouble brewing, they all know, and that is why none bother to speak it out loud. Like a cauldron boiling, the world goes on, changing and reordering itself in ways that might not be what you wished for. Dhraid’s city continues to consolidate itself, entrenched in the bowels of a mountain, in a land whose true ownership no one can remember anymore. You have told them about the growth there, the prosperity guided by an iron hand clad in delicate silks. A ghost of your own home, built by survivors out of necessity, with hopes it will one day become more. The sweeps since her departure have seen many other trolls following her trail, seeking to make their own fortune in a world that seems to have resigned itself to your continued survival. Scattered between here and there, several dozen settlements built by those who for one reason or another gave up the journey into the North. Like veins carrying blood, the tiny villages and towns have fostered a route of commerce, established on the good faith between the cities and their leaders. But because the distance is great, to give both cities air to breath and land to grow, the arms of the law stretch thinner and order collapses under duress. Merchant caravans attacked just like your own group was, demolished where you survived. 

There is silence in the room, after you explain the facts. No one speaks, no one bothers to say out loud what you all know. 

The war is already brewing. 

Almost without meaning to, all eyes turn, in turn, to the empty seats in your circle, the two voices missing in your council. Like mirrors that threaten to swallow you whole into the void of their silence. Zillah is dead, has been dead for nearly as long as Dhraid has been gone. You miss the rustblood, sometimes. She and Phylis and you always were in charge of breaking off pointless discussions and call for action when the rest was too busy arguing semantics. You and Phylis still do, but sometimes you miss a third voice, jeering and cackling in the background. And you know everyone misses Dhraid. She left a strange void in your ranks, and it’s taken a long time for the balance to restore itself, now that there’s no one to snap a fan close and call for common sense. It’s odd and awkward and you’re still not sure it works, but you make do with it. Or rather, they make do with it. 

As the sweeps have gone by, you’ve lost much interest in politics. Not that you ever had much of it in the first place; battles won with words are not battles you feel particularly interested in. You’ve always been the wild one, the savage. The one excluded from every council and rejected from every assembly. Except this one, the one where you don’t offer much advice and don’t often listen to anything, unless it’s a request for something to get done. You don’t have a head fit for politics, the way Harlow or Spit or Dhraid or Tyrell do. Nor you have a greater calling, like Phylis and her never ending quest for technology, or Linnea and her mission to record history. You don’t answer to a higher power, the way Iggy does, and you certainly do not covet fame and glory the way Ulyses does. You’re a simple troll with simple wants. So long as you have something to fight and Phylis at your side, you’re pretty much set for life. 

But life, of course, is not set for you. 

You’ve always thought you were not meant to rule the way you do. You were not meant for a high birth, head of a clan and heir to a prosperous, respected leader. You were not meant for dozens of eyes following your every move, dozens of ears hanging onto your every word. You were meant for simpler things, but because you are not what you were meant for, you have to deal with the complexities of leadership instead. You’re not wild and savage because you don’t think or because you’re too brutish to understand the subtleties of the world around you. You’re wild and savage because at the end of the day it doesn’t matter. You can tell safety from danger, even if you can’t really tell right from wrong. You know when to strike and when to pull back, when to push and when to yield. And yes, you _do_ yield. You yield to those who know better, who’ve earned your trust and your loyalty and your love. You yield with the same unconcerned ease with which you push, unafraid. You killed a flaming featherbeast to earn your title, the monstrous creature that once set ablaze the land of your forefathers for so long it renamed it. You killed the unkillable, with little more than a lance and a dagger, when you were scarcely fifteen sweeps old and nowhere near as grown as you are now. They called you Reckless for it, for dancing between fireballs and laughing in concert with its screeching. They called you Reckless, because you threw yourself at it without a shadow of doubt, without looking back or caring for consequence. They called you Reckless and your father beat you to a pulp afterwards, once the ceremonies were done and the honored guests had left, for endangering his people and for all the disastrous things that could have happened, had you failed in your attempt. 

The true irony of it is that you are not, were not and have never been _reckless_ in your entire life. 

Recklessness is stupidity in a nice disguise. Recklessness is the polite term for insanity. You’re not stupid and you’re sure as hell not _insane_. You resented them, a long time ago, for not understanding what was right in front of them. You’ve grown old and given up on resentment because it doesn’t fix anything, but at the core, you still remember the bile bubbling in your mouth every time they laughed and jeered and used your title to excuse them not thinking about things. Your horns sing when danger looms above your head, physical or otherwise. They cannot take you by surprise, they cannot sneak on you, no matter how they try. Blades or words or poison, you can feel it coming all the same. You’re not reckless, because you are prepared. When you jump into a brawl, you move the way you do because you know when a strike is coming almost before your opponent finishes thinking about it. When you denied treaties and refused proposals, without deigning to explain yourself, it was because you _knew_. You could hear the song curled around your hornbeds, drilling straight through your skull. 

You could have been fearsome, in the field of politics and games of words. Between your gift and your mind, you could have done many great things. But you’ve long given up on sharing your thoughts or trying to make the world see the line of thinking you’re following, when all they see is your title and assume you’re a mindless beast that thrives on danger. You thrive on excitement, on thrills that make your blood boil, but not on thoughtlessness. They see a giant, too stupid to be afraid, too strong to reason with, and never bother to listen to what you might have to say. Unlike Phylis, who everyone faults for thinking too much, or Zillah, who everyone faulted for caring too little, your main function among the Council is to cut off pointless arguments because that’s all you’re willing to do. You tell them what you know, bare facts they can easily corroborate, and let them do the thinking instead. Sometimes you wonder if they’d listen to you, as they listen to each other, if you actually told them more than that. Phylis is convinced they would, but deep down you’re afraid of trying and being disappointed. You’re afraid of reaching out and losing the one family that has never given you reason to scorn them. 

Besides, you have Phylis. 

Phylis understands you, in a way no one else has ever been able to. She sees more than your title or your blood or your actions. She sees you, bare bones, for exactly who you are. She listens to what you say, never questions or demands you to explain yourself. Phylis _trusts_ you. Your people only ever trust your talents and your survival record, not you. Your people follow you because they’re supposed to, because they don’t know anything else. Phylis follows you because of you, and you love her for it more than you’ll ever love anything in this world. 

“Well, that was fucking grim,” she says, grabbing onto your belt and hoisting herself up to sit on your shoulder. 

You snort, leaning forward just enough for her to find her perch. 

“Didn’t bring home the nicest news, did I?” You tilt your head back when her claws start scratching your scalp between the braids. 

“To be fair,” she pats your head, one arm hooked around a horn, “things were getting boring anyway.” 

You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat, slowly making your way out of the House of the Ten. No plans have been made, except increasing patrols and sending out spies to gather more information, and you figure they’re not going to like what they find. 

“I know,” Phylis says, absently scratching your horn right where it unfolds from the spiral, “I’ll buy you lunch.” 

“It’s nearly dawn,” you say, somewhat stupidly, because those scratches reverberate through you all the way to your soul. 

“Well yes, but ‘I’ll buy you dinner’ sounds suggestive,” you crack a laugh at that, basking in her grin. “Sorry to say, Big Brute, we’re talking business tonight.” 

“What if I _want_ you to buy me dinner, suggestiveness and all?” Your voice rises in pitch, just enough to be an effective whine, and she snorts, barely holding in a laugh. 

“Tough luck, pal, we’ve got shit to do,” she pulls off haughtiness with an amazing skill, and then scoffs at you, flicking your horn with her claws. “And I’m still pissed at you, so don’t test my magnanimousness.” 

“Is that even a word?” 

“It is because I said so,” she swings in her perch to press her lips to your cheek. “So there. Now get on with it.” 

Obediently, you go. 

** ☥ **

“Stop scaring them, you goddamn landbred _fuck_!” 

Spit throws his arms in the air, though there’s a current of laughter in his voice. You roar a laugh back at him, standing tall as Ulyses clings onto his mount for his dear life. You can’t deny Spit’s pet packbeasts are a thing of beauty, sturdy on all accounts and all short of feral when it comes to standing between the seadweller and anything remotely like a threat. You’d know, you spent a good half of a sweep getting chased off by a herd of snorting, bite-happy beasts that didn’t very much like it when you shoved their precious master off his feet. Which is admittedly a thing you do only to be a dickish asshole or when you feel like proving a point with brute strength rather than words. You could pretty much kill them all without breaking a sweat, if you really had to, but if you give any of them so much as a scratch you know for a fact Spit will use his powers and slam you into a rock until he’s broken every bone in your body. Like you got to see, from up close, when a stray howlbeast tried to bite a chunk off one, two sweeps back. 

They snort in defiance to you, circling you slowly before trotting back to circle him, the one carrying Ulyses on its back along with them, uncaring of the added weight as the blueblood holds onto the reins for his dear life. 

“Can I get down now?” He croaks pitifully, shooting Spit a pleading look. 

“No,” the seadweller snaps unforgivingly and then slaps the hindquarters of the beast, causing it to raise on its back legs before it shoots forward across the field in a full run. 

Ulyses shrieks like a wiggler all the way. 

“If you don’t like the idea of cavalry,” you say coming to crouch next to Spit as you both watch Ulyses try – ineffectually – to command the beast back to where you are, “you could have just said no.” 

“I think the cavalry is an _excellent_ idea,” he says, giving you a sidelook and a smirk full of teeth. “It’s also a thing that will take time and resources and a whole fucking lot of effort, so I’m not going to let him halfass it like everything else he does.” There’s a pause. “Where’s your worse half tonight?” 

You scowl at him. 

“Working on something or another that’s delicate and potentially explosive so no distractions in her workshop tonight,” you reach a hand and shove him lightly enough he only stumbles. You feel the glare of several dozen angry packbeasts almost instantly. “And I’m sure you meant _better_ half.” 

“Did not,” and then he sniffs in such a disdainful, puffed up way you can’t help but smirk anyway. “ _You_ have never flung a wrench at my head and knocked me off three fucking flights of stairs. _She_ has. Ergo, in view of the abundant fucking evidence, she’s the worse fucking half.” 

You crack a laugh at that, wishing dearly you’d been around to see that, and not once think to doubt he’s telling the truth. Phylis would do that. Phylis would do that and worse, if properly set off. You grin at him with all your teeth. 

“And you didn’t deserve any of it, I’m sure.” 

“I never get what I deserve,” Spit grins back, thumbs hooked on waistline of his pants. 

This is why you like the ridiculous son of a bitch, for all he entertains himself pissing people off and causing strife everywhere he goes. Because he’s honest about everything, especially the things he shouldn’t be, and he doesn’t give a fuck about polite pretenses like everyone else. So you laugh at the outrageousness of his words and go along with whatever new, deranged scheme he comes up with, because as you told him the night you met him, he can count on you to always back him up. He’s never made your horns sing, and he’s never let you down, so for all his faults – and fuck if he doesn’t have a lot of those – you trust him. 

“We’ll be fucked the day you do, old man,” you grin around the words, enjoying the glare they earn you. “Fucked worse than meteors and guardians and shit. Hell hath no wrath like Alston scorned.” 

“Hn,” Spit snorts, almost seeming to swell up with arrogance alone. “Well, at least you’re smart enough to know that much.” He gives you a withering glare. “Would be amazing if you could pass on the information to Phylis.” 

“Wouldn’t do you any good, if I did,” you laugh, arching your spine until your back cracks loudly. “Girlie doesn’t care for anything that’s not ‘replicable data’.” 

“Which means?” You nearly start laughing again, at the vaguely offended look on his face. 

“Something she can test and retest on her own, that can be pulled apart and studied and explained to the last detail.” 

Spit squints up at you. 

“But _I_ ’m the one people say is shithive maggots.” 

You arch an eyebrow back at him, unruffled. 

“When literally everyone in the city is benefiting from some pipedream you had in the middle of the day, I’m sure they’ll start calling you eccentric too, instead.” 

“You need to stop making sense,” he groused darkly, “it’s fucking annoying.” 

For lack of a better answer, you laugh. You laugh until he’s laughing too and in the distance Ulyses screeches like a terrified grub. 

** ☥ **

“…what do you mean they’re _gone_?” 

Linnea’s voice carries a roar in its quietness and you watch the tealblood cower and flinch, suitably terrified. You’re genuinely impressed by his endurance, given that he was mostly dead by the time he crawled his way to the City gates. Between exposure to the sun and the missing arm, you can’t help but commend his dedication, at least in the privacy of your own mind. 

“They’re not dead, my liege,” the tealblood insists, “they—“ 

“Of course they’re not,” Alilah interrupts, waving a hand dismissively, “we’d know if they were.” 

The tealblood stares at her a little, somewhat mystified by that little revelation, but then nodding slowly, accepting it easily. You are the Council, and somehow through the sweeps in your service, trolls have managed to shroud you all with a veil of mystery and incomprehension that makes them able to believe almost anything when it comes to you. Nothing is impossible for you, nothing is outside your reach or power. It’s kind of a pain, you think, given how much you dislike people’s expectations weighing you down, but at the same time, you can’t deny it being convenient in the great scheme of things. 

“Captured, then,” Tyrell muses with a snort, sounding absolutely bored. “Well, I suppose we should expect demands to be made soon.” 

“What I want to know,” Phylis says after a moment, clicking her claws on the table, “is how the fuck did anyone manage to restrain _Spit_. Asshole is a veritable force of nature.” 

There’s silence at that, but Phylis’ tone keeps it from getting too brooding. The tealblood looks desperate and frightened, and you’re pretty sure it’d much rather be dead than standing here with you. 

“I’m sorry, my liege, I would not know,” he says, clutching his shoulder anxiously, almost as if he could still feel the arm there. “I don’t even know who they were, they carried no sign nor did they claim alliance to anyone in particular.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Alilah interrupts him again, and waves a hand at him. “You’re dismissed.” 

“But—“ 

“Go find someone else’s floor to bleed on,” she snaps at him, causing the tealblood to stand to attention before he squirrels away as fast as his limping form can carry him. 

“Haaarsh,” Ulyses comments, staring at the trail of blood left behind. “So what now?” 

“Iggy could track them down, right?” You say, nodding at the still quiet brownblood. He turns to you with one of those vacant smiles of his, but he nods back in agreement. “So, let’s just—“ 

“We’ll wait,” Alilah’s voice books no room for objection, snapping like a whip across the room. 

The silence is heavy as all eyes turn to her. There’s no trace of grief or worry in her expression, just a faint frustration that seems almost underwhelming. Almost hesitantly, one by one you nod, because even as she’s calm and composed, there’s a whisper of threat wrapping around her that no one is particularly eager to provoke. Your hornbeds hum lightly, as she looks at you, the last one to acquiesce to her. Seeing no one dares voices a protest, the seadweller turns to leave, steps even and measured. 

“Right,” Ulyses sighs, scratching the back of his head, once he’s fairly certain Alilah’s out of earshot. “Who wants to talk sense into her?” 

“Not you, I should hope,” Tyrell mocks, smiling with an ironic tilt to his lips. He turns to leave, ignoring the rude gesture Ulyses gives him. “I welcome anyone who wishes to help oversee preparations for the imminent attack.” 

“I’ll help you with that,” Linnea shrugs, rubbing her face with a hand. “I suppose Alilah’s right, if they took them in alive it’s most likely a diversion for something bigger.” 

“Don’t look at me,” Phylis says, stretching until her back cracks. “I’m small and squishy and smart enough not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” you find yourself saying, voice drowning Phylis’ uneasy laughter. You shrug off the looks you get, casually avoiding Phylis’ inquisitive gaze, and offer a fanged smile. “Now go.” 

You shoo them away with a little wave of your hand. They go, but you know Phylis will want to have words with you, the moment she catches you alone. That’s alright, you think, you’re probably going to need it after Alilah’s done with you, but someone really does need to talk to her and you’re probably the one with the best survival rate, if she goes on a rage. At least you know how to duck properly, if nothing else. You find her in the food preparation block, moving in a brisk, purposeful way that seems bizarrely controlled and restrained. You’re not sure that’s good or natural, because trolls generally don’t react well to having their quadrantmates threatened. It’s a really fucking stupid thing to do, actually, to threaten a troll’s quadrants. All it does is send people into bloodthirsty rages. And for all Alilah is the pacifier in her moirallegiance, you still remember the night Harlow gave her a title, and the way she just plowed through enemy lines without breaking a sweat. A very useful thing, when thrown against invaders, but the last thing you need is her going feral on you in the middle of the City. 

“Can’t tell if you’re panicking or plotting murder,” you say, as you step into the room. 

“I’m not panicking,” she replies, sounding almost amused, “I’m baking.” 

You stare at her as she goes back to mixing some shit with more shit into a big bowl, humming. _Humming_. 

“But—” 

“But nothing, I’m baking.” She smiles at you with all her teeth, as she pours the mixture into a pan. “I’ll take my time, too. Because if they’re not back by the time this is done, then a lot of people are going to die.” 

Pretty much anyone standing between her and them, you suppose, and then discretely shuffle closer to the door. 

“Why?” 

“Because my matesprit and my moirail are both dumb fucking morons that make me question my sanity every night, but they usually know what they’re doing, so I trust them to not need rescuing every single time it looks like they’ve fucked something up.” She takes a moment to roll her eyes, though you notice the profanity and try to remember a time when you’ve heard her use it so casually before. You wonder if that should count as another warning sign of an incoming meltdown. “That and I would look very stupid if I rush in, in all my dashing glory, ready to get some culling done, only to find those two making out on top of a pile of corpses.” 

“Oh,” you say, blinking slowly. 

“So no, I’m not panicking. I’m baking.” She arches an eyebrow at you, putting her hands on her hips, and it strikes you how goddamn terrible she looks and how much you hope to never incur in her wrath. “Could use a hand, though. Unless you are too busy panicking, that is.” 

You blink slowly at her, sitting on your haunches almost hesitantly. 

“You want me to cook with you?” This conversation, you realize, is going nowhere you expected it to. But your hornbeds are quiet so maybe that’s not a terrible thing, in the end. 

“Bake,” she corrects you absently, already back to her stuff mixed with more stuff. “But mostly I just want you to stop treating me like I’m going to spontaneously start culling people like an irrational monster.” That smile makes things in your pan shrivel up in genuine fear that has nothing to do with the songs your horns could sing. You wonder if this is what a normal sense of self-preservation feels like. “It’s a little offensive.” 

“Last time you got mad, lass, you took down half an army with your bare hands.” You tilt your head to the side, trying to gauge her reaction. “And you didn’t even have that good a reason to be mad, then.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m _not_ mad, then.” 

You really wish she would stop smiling that way, you’re not used to feeling like the smallest link in any given food chain. It’s unsettling. Enough that the sudden earthquake comes very close to catching you by surprise, though it is seconded by the sudden wail between your horns. Alilah chuckles. 

“There it is,” she says, as if she had been expecting it, putting down her bowl and walking past you towards the front door. “You will not want to miss this, Spyros.” 

You follow her, almost spellbound, as her steps remain surefooted and unhurried. When you reach the ornate doorway, you find the rest of the Council standing there, staring at the sky. You join them, absently pulling Phylis onto your shoulder as you watch the bright volts of violet stretching into the clouds. 

“I take it they really couldn’t subdue Spit for long,” Ulyses muses unnecessarily, as the night sky burns violet from the literal psionic storm in the distance. 

“Worse,” Alilah replies, voice eerily dreamy, “they made him _mad_.” 

You have the oddest certainty, that she’s mocking you somehow. Even though she’s not even looking at you. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Tyrell says, as if discussing the weather. Technically, given the fireworks you’re witnessing, one could say he _is_ , but that doesn’t make his cavalier attitude any more palatable. “At this rate there won’t be anything left to figure out who they were.” 

“I’m pretty sure that won’t be much of a problem,” Linnea deadpans, somber. 

The reality of the situation, surreal as it is, dawns on you between one heartbeat and the next, and you feel uncontrollable laughter bubble up in your gut. You throw your head back and cackle as violet lightning paints cracks in the sky, and adrenaline burns its way through your veins. Because what is there to fear, really, with that kind of power on your side? Phylis wraps her arms around your neck, pressed up close to your head, and her little attempts to shoosh you only make you laugh harder. You laugh and laugh, close to deranged, wishing you could throw yourself out there and race that lightning the same way you once raced the meteors. It makes you feel small and insignificant, so the only rational course of action is to challenge it and try to overcome it. You know your laughter upsets the others, but you can’t really bring yourself to stop, full of a savage thrill and suddenly feeling more alive than you have in _decades_. 

Hours after the lights die out, Spit and Harlow walk through the main gates of the city. You can still feel the euphoria lurking just under the surface of your mind, tempting you to give in and laugh again, but you manage to contain yourself. Harlow looks haggard and there’s blood in his hands and on face, though not nearly enough of it is his own. Spit looks like something that walked out of a day horror, eyes glowing and small volts of that same lightning curling around him, crackling threateningly, and he stinks of burnt ozone. Every other step, he doesn’t touch the ground, but he’s too focused and intent to really notice. Trolls scramble out of the way, forming a crowd around them that follows them until they reach you at the entrance of the House of the Ten. You see the way they look at Spit, the muted horror behind their submissiveness, and wonder if any of them ever knew the type of monster the seadweller could become, when cornered. 

“You’re late,” Alilah says, voice reproachful. 

The ground explodes under her feet, crackling with violet light, but she remains impassive. You see trolls cower, backing away and yet unable to truly run away. You see the Council tense and ready to fight, even if they really don’t want to. But most of all, you see the way Alilah’s lips curve into a hook as she steps forward, unafraid. 

“Shoosh, Spiteful,” she says, ignoring the way he bares his teeth at her when her hands come to his face and gently pap him. “No need for that anymore, _shoosh_.” 

When he folds into her arms, docile and pacified, you are filled with the certainty that not even gods could stand against your city. 

And yet, your horns still sing. 

** ☥ **

“If you want to moirail the prophet, then moirail the fucking prophet!” 

Gold light crackles between Phylis’ horns, in reply to your words, and you find yourself stepping back. You must look ridiculous, you think absently, cowering so easily before her, but she is your Phylis and you owe her obedience and loyalty like you’ve never owed it to anyone else before. 

“You’re being obtuse, Spyros,” she says, and doesn’t call you Big Brute with that taunting singsong that lets you know all is forgiven, so you know she must be legitimately annoyed. “And I’ve got news for you, it ain’t fucking cute.” 

“But you’re pale for him, aren’t you?” You try to make your confusion obvious, so she won’t take it out on you too much, but you only succeed in making her sigh. 

You flinch at that. You’ve grown complacent, you think, and lost whatever skill you had to manage quadrants, after you met Phylis. Because Phylis consumes you, beginning to end, and you slide through pale and red and black and ashen, but mostly red. She’s not yours as much as you’re hers, which is alright with you, because that is how it is meant to be. You’ll never have another quadrant besides her, and that is a realization you had sweeps upon sweeps ago. But you don’t see why she shouldn’t try, if she’s occasionally dripping pale for Harlow. You were never meant to be moirails, and you regret the deception if only because it makes everything more complicated. Quadrants within the Council are a fucking political statement, no matter how much you don’t want them to be, and you think wryly that you have no one to blame for that but yourself. 

“Harlow is my friend,” Phylis says instead, curling up in a corner of the rest slab, and slowly goes back to sharpening her blades. “And he doesn’t need a moirail, and I don’t want one.” You crawl onto the rest slab, the plush surface cushioning your weight as you shift until you’re half curling around her. You don’t touch her though. Instead, you settle down to listen. “I love him dearly, and you know that. But that doesn’t mean I want to shack up with him.” 

“He’s your friend,” you rumble quietly, eyes half lidded. “And he loves you. And if he’s pale for you, he’d understand us, too.” 

“I don’t _want_ anyone to understand us,” her hands are shaking, but it’s the quiet ferocity of her tone that shoots up your spine like fire. “I don’t want anyone sticking their fucking nose where it doesn’t fucking belong.” 

You make a sound in the back of your throat, somewhere between a purr and a growl, until she puts her weapons out of the way and squirms under your arm, head tucked under your chin. You rub a finger against the base of her left horn, and feel her slowly relax as her breathing evens out. She’s been strung up for a while, ever since you came back from Dhraid’s city. You understand why, since you’re no longer used to one being too far from where the other is. If anything happens to her, your horns would let you know and you’d be by her side pretty quickly. And if something happened to you, you’re sure she’d know, somehow, and be there when you need her most. But the idea you got hurt and she wasn’t there, and all she got to see were the leftovers from a fight she didn’t get to fight has her anxious and upset. And you understand that, you really do. But you’re not the thinking guy. You’ve made yourself not be the thinking guy. You took out your anger on the assholes that got you by surprise, and then you came home and let it rest. She’s been fussy and cranky and upset, and you don’t know how to make her feel better because _you’re not her moirail._ It was easy to put up a pretense, before, because neither of you ever needed a moirail, but between the weight of Zillah’s death and Dhaid’s departure, things have become strained and unstable. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise, with all the conviction that certainty affords you, and press your lips to a horn, right where it splits and branches out. 

“I know you’re not going anywhere,” she laughs, but there’s still something missing in her laugh, and it digs into your soul like claws. “I’m not letting you go anywhere without me.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you insist, leaning into the touch of a much smaller hand tracing the arch of your cheekbone. “And if you need a moirail, get a moirail. And if you want the Prophet to moirail your sorry carcass into the ground, then ask him. _I’m not going anywhere_.” 

“But—“ 

“But nothing,” you kiss her forehead then. “I just want you to be fine, Girlie. The world can go fuck itself, so long as you’re alright. That’s all I need.” 

“Who says this is about you?” But the sullen tone tells you more than words ever will. 

“It’s not, and that’s the point.” You smile. “This isn’t about me, and this isn’t about us. This is about you, and not being scared.” 

“Right,” but even if her tone is skeptical, she smiles back. It’s small and wry, but it worms itself into you and makes you feel warm and pleased. “Conquer it or it’ll conquer me.” You grin at her, teeth bared. She sighs. “Fine, fine. I’ll think about it.” You know it’ll be alright when she reaches a hand to scratch your scalp between the braids. “But not until you stop looking like a smug asshole about shit.” 

** ☥ **

“So I did a thing,” Phylis says, drumming her fingers in a soothing pattern on the first curve of your left horn. “Because I’m smart like that.” 

Harlow looks up at her with a small smile, expression caught somewhere between amusement and resignation. She still hasn’t talked with him about anything quadrant related, but you know better than to press the issue. It’s not about you, and aside not letting it get in your way, you’re not about to stick your nose where it’s not wanted. 

“Should I start evacuating the city?” Harlow arches his eyebrows, but you still notice how he keeps both hands holding onto his glaive. It’s rare to see him without it these days, but you suppose the little scare shook him more than you originally thought it would have. 

“If I have it my way, we won’t have to,” Phylis grins, then shrugs casually. There’s nothing casual about it, though, and you’re burning to ask what she’s been doing, because you know she’s been plotting something, and the fact she’s kept it secret even from you makes you antsy. “I started a few rumors.” 

“ _Phylis_.” 

“Hear me out, they’re pretty interesting rumors.” She balances on your shoulder and then slides down your arm so she’s standing next to Harlow, looking up at him. “See, I notice things. But the best part is that most people don’t notice _me_.” 

“Everyone notices when you blow shit up or start throwing things at people’s heads,” Harlow deadpans flawlessly, causing you to snicker and get a smack to your calf for your efforts. 

“Yeah, but then they don’t notice anything I do any other time,” Phylis sounds unearthly proud of herself for that, which you think can’t be good for anyone involved. “So I started noticing things, and since people don’t notice me, they don’t notice that I notice.” 

“And…?” 

“How many goldbloods are there in the city, Harlow?” You blink at the question, at the same time Harlow does. Phylis’ smile is nothing short of demonic. “Don’t give an exact number, then. Just… out of a hundred trolls in the city, how many of those should be goldbloods, you think?” 

Harlow furrows his brow, thinking. He’s not any better at Math than you are, and you’re pretty damn abysmal, but you think about it, trying to see where Phylis is going with this. 

“Oh, twenty? Fifteen?” He tilts his head to the side. “A good deal of them joined us before the founding of the city, and then, the ones that’ve been hatched.” 

Phylis’ smile turns down right terrifying. 

“Two.” 

“What.” 

“Out of a hundred trolls, only two are goldbloods. And most of those are children.” She shrugs. “I double checked the math and sniffed around the city. My people,” and there’s something long suffering and almost bitter in the way she says that, “have never made themselves very noticeable around here. They have always been just _there_. So I started to notice they were vanishing into thin air, and since no once notices me much, either, I started a few rumors about them being gone. Funny things, rumors. They change all the time, the more people add to them.” She shrugged. “Turns out most of the city doesn’t really like the fuckers much, all things considered. And I think they might have good reason for it.” 

“That is not a joke to be making, Phylis,” Harlow scowls, grip tightening around his weapon. 

“Archie,” you say instead, frowning as she looks up at you with a sharp smirk. “Use small words.” 

“Goldbloods have been leaving the City in droves, and they’re plotting something nasty, because if trolls are stupid, goldbloods are fucking worse.” She shrugs again, though you can see every line of her body all but screaming bloodlust. “I’m going to stop them.” 

“You shouldn’t be telling me this,” Harlow growls, eyes narrowed. “You should be telling the Council.” 

“They’re my people,” Phylis sounds homicidal enough that it sends a spark of thrill down your spine, and it certainly makes Harlow look taken aback. “They don’t like it and I’m not thrilled about it, but they’re mine. It’s my responsibility, so I’m going to fix it.” 

“But—“ 

“I know what I’m doing, Dreamlord,” Phylis grins at him, with confidence that doesn’t book an objection. “I just figured you’d like to know why I was gone.” 

** ☥ **

“Do I even need to say it?” You wonder out loud, sprawled on the rest slab and watching Phylis move around the room briskly. 

“No,” she laughs, a note of undue nervousness in her tone, “but say it anyway.” 

“This is a fucking stupid idea,” you growl dutifully, eyes half lidded and expression sour. “And you should take me with you.” 

“Taking you with me is an even worse idea,” she laughs, browsing through her tools to see which ones she’ll take. “I’m trying to be diplomatic.” 

You’re cranky and annoyed and not very happy with her proposed solution to the goldblood problem. You don’t even know if there is such a thing as a goldblood problem. There probably is, though, to be honest. The goldbloods are always causing trouble and you have a lifetime of prejudice screaming in the back of your head that if anyone would start shit, it would be them. Because they’re goldbloods. But you wish she wouldn’t take responsibility for it. They’ve never really acknowledged her as a leader and she’s never made much of a fuss about it, so you don’t understand why she’d step up and try to handle it on her own. If it were your purplebloods making a racket, you would do the same, of course, but you’re acknowledged as an authority by them, much as you sometimes wish you weren’t. 

Truth is, you’re not used to thinking of blood, when you think of Phylis. Being a goldblood is an undeniable part of her identity, because before the Great Catastrophe, they had the most solid, organized society in the planet. Everything about goldbloods was about control and order, and if you make yourself look for it, you can see it in her. But most of the time… well, she’s not. She’s chaotic and impertinent and cheeky and unpredictable. She’s never really fit with her own, and that’s probably why she fits so well with you. 

“You don’t _do_ diplomatic, Girlie.” 

“Do too!” Her grin hurts you all the way to your soul “Mr. I smack my horns on ceilings on a daily basis.” 

You bare your teeth teasingly at her, but all she does is stick her tongue back at you. 

“Run the plan by me again,” you say, shifting around, trying to find a comfortable spot even if the unease you feel comes from the situation itself and not the bedding. “In detail. In more than just ‘I’m going to talk to them and put them in their place’.” 

“Simple works best,” she shrugs. “What you and the others don’t understand is that goldbloods don’t _like_ war. It’s a resource black hole and horribly inefficient. We like progress. We like discovery. Before the Administrators rose to power, we were more at war with ourselves than with anyone else. And it _sucked_. I cannot put to words how much it fucking _sucked_. Kids used to study this, why is the Administration good? Because the Administration kept us from dying like animals just to sate the ego of a few disgruntled, smelly, old royals no one gave a fuck anymore but that we still obeyed because they were the only thing we had. And even after the nation unified and we started wars with the other castes, we were always the ones who capitulated first and at the first chance for it. We never wanted more land, we never _started_ anything. The entire system was designed to react, not to aggress. Do you know why so few of us decided to join the prophet when he came to find us? Because he made it sound like we had to take the initiative. Goldbloods don’t take the initiative. We react to shit, holy fuck, we react like we were made for it. But we don’t _start_ things. I don’t care what’s happened, you need more than a couple decades to rewire the thought process of an entire fucking nation.” 

“That’s still ‘talk to them and put them in their place’,” you make a face, because she’s telling the truth and that’s part of the reason your people has always hated goldbloods. 

No one knows by what stroke of luck they got the territory they had, with their passiveness and their ridiculous reluctance to fight the good fight. But fuck if they weren’t possessive about their land. Your own people were always looking forward to expand, to revel in the implicit glory of a good battle, and that was why you kept up war open at so many fronts. Status within the purpleblood council was very much related to war exploits. You think about her words a little, and admit that, in all honesty, your people probably do enjoy war more than you’ve ever let on. Every other caste you can think of, except for limebloods, probably enjoyed war that much. How could you not, you think, when war was the only constant you ever had, for so long? Peace is still an awkward, strange thing to deal with, even after so many sweeps after the meteors put an end to anything that could rightfully be called a war. Trolls are vicious, feral creatures, made for fight and slaughter. You relish in the kill, and you know it. But it’s true Phylis doesn’t share your passion. She’s strong, as strong as you are, and she can kill just as easily as you can, but she doesn’t thrive on it the way you do. She kills because she needs to, because it’s convenient, because it’s necessary. She prefers hunting beasts than trolls, and there’s always a sneer of disgust in her face, when she washes blood off her claws. She doesn’t judge you for your love of carnage, but she can’t bring herself to share it. 

“Believe it or not? Sometimes talking is the way to fix things.” 

** ☥ **

You’re all but crawling up a wall, once she’s gone. 

You expected it, of course, but that doesn’t change the fact that you want to crawl out of your skin and onto the wall the moment she’s out the City’s doors. You’re in a foul, snappish mood, so you concentrate on things that require you to be violent and aggressive. You decide to accompany a hunting expedition, though the carnage does, in fact, very little to soothe your rage. You promised her to stay within the City grounds, so you don’t join the second expedition supposedly heading over to Dhraid’s City, but which is really just bait to test the waters after the attack on Spit and Harlow. It’s Alilah leading, this time, and you wish you could go, if only because you’re sure she’s still not over what they did to her moirail and her matesprit, and it’d be an excellent excuse to act like the savage, mindless beast you’re supposed to be. 

“At times like these, my friend, the only thing we can do is have faith.” 

You look up to see Harlow approaching your perch on the rocks. You’ve always found the sea fascinating, if only perhaps, because until settling here, you had never seen it before. There’s something oddly soothing in the roar of the waves and the hypnotic rhythm of the tide. It drowns out the soft hum between your horns. It probably shouldn’t put you at ease as much at is as it does, considering you know exactly jackshit about swimming and if you ever fell into the water you’d probably drown. You grunt at him, as he comes to sit next to you, placing the glaive on his lap. 

“I have faith in her alright,” you scoff. “There isn’t anything out there that can take her down, because there isn’t anything out there that can take _me_ down.” 

Harlow makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat and shrugs slightly. You like him well enough, because he’s the type of troll that is likable above understandable. Everything about him is larger than life: his prophecies, his journey, his destiny, his quadrants. But the troll himself is not. He’s always reminded you a little of yourself, which is probably fairly self-centered of you, but you can’t help it. You’ve always felt Harlow doesn’t lead because he wants to, but because he was put there by whatever forces control his life. Unlike you, however, he has made himself fit for his role and his powers have always aided that, instead of getting in the way. Harlow is always in control of things and of himself, unlike you, who keeps a strong hold of himself and just adapts to everything else. There are many things to find annoying in the prophet, but he somehow makes them not matter all that much, and you quietly envy that, even as you follow him anyway. 

“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing quietly. “But I’ve learned to trust that Phylis knows what she’s doing, even when it really doesn’t seem like it.” 

“I know why she left without me,” you grumble, shifting on your perch. You take a deep breath, the salt in the breeze tickling the back of your nose. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.” 

“Sometimes the people we love the most do exactly what we don’t want them to,” he sounds almost amused, “but because we love them, we need to let them do what they must.” 

Considering his quadrants and his involvement in his quest, you suppose he knows what he’s talking about. Were it anyone else but Harlow, you’d be all too happy to tell him where he can stuff his wisdom. But it’s Harlow. He watched his mother die to summon the Guardian and explained you beforehand exactly how it’d go down. He knows best of you all, the cost of duty and the sacrifices that need to be made for things to work out in the end. You understand sacrifice and the inherent value of it, but Phylis is not and has never been an acceptable sacrifice, no matter what. If you had to choose, between her and the rest of the world, you know already what you’d choose. On some level, you think Harlow knows too. You wonder how he feels about it. 

“Sometimes the people we love are really fucking stupid.” 

“I envy you two a little, you know.” 

You look up in surprise, to find Harlow pointedly not looking at you. 

“Why the fuck would you do that?” You say, half grunt, half laugh. 

“Because you’re equals, you and her.” He shrugs almost delicately, and it strikes you, all of a sudden, what he means. 

“So make yourself equal to them,” you snort, and don’t bother to beat around the bush. “Not gonna lie to you, prophet, you’ve gone and gotten yourself a stiff fucking mark to match, but match it anyway.” And then you smile, a little wry. “Did you know what Alilah said, when you two were gone?” He shakes his head, warily, and you laugh, a ghost of the laughter you felt then, when Spit lit up the night sky with his rage. “She said we should wait, ‘cause you two might be fucking idiots, but not idiots that usually need rescuing.” 

“Spit did most of the work, so really—“ 

“But you culled a few yourself, didn’t you?” And you can tell, from the way he flinches, that it’s true. “What scares you most, prophet? That you did it, or why you did it?” 

“That’s not—“ 

“Phylis is gone,” you say, standing up and cracking your back as you do. “Phylis is my life. You don’t understand what I would do for her, but you know you would do the same for _them_. And you shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Have faith, Harlow, like you say, but make sure you can back up that faith, if you need to. It’s all you can do.” 

“I came here to comfort you,” he laughs, a little awkwardly, “how did we end up talking about me?” 

“Should probably think about that,” you grin as you leap off the rocks and land on the sand with a little grunt. “Gonna go hunting, now.” 

“But dawn’s just a few hours away!” He yells, looking a little disgruntled and heartbreaking small, holding onto his weapon awkwardly. 

“Gonna hunt something fast, then!” 

You drop your weight onto your hands and run, not sticking around to hear whatever Harlow yells at you as you leave. 

** ☥ **

When Phylis returns, she’s not alone. 

You meet her eyes when you see her and refrain from storming there and picking her up, even though every bone in your body wants to. She comes with a pack of goldbloods, and more specifically, a very tall, lanky troll who walks leisurely at her side. You don’t like him. You don’t like any of them, and it has nothing to do with the fact they’re filthy fucking goldbloods. They make the base of your horns ache and your stomach turn in disgust. The arrogant looking man is an Administrator. He interviews himself with the rest of the Council, but you don’t pay much attention to him, far too focused in studying Phylis’ reaction to him and trying to see if she’s been harmed in any way. She looks fine, aside from being tired, and you’re annoyed at the way she instinctively turns to listen to whatever the stuck up bastard says. 

He talks of attacks on their city, what the once proud goldblood nation has been reduced to – and fuck you sideways with something sharp, you can’t help the unpleasant smile at the thought of the goddamn bastards driven to squalor – much like the attacks on your caravans. He talks about alliances and “common enemies” and “benefits and prosperity” for you all. The goldbloods don’t want war. The goldblood want goldbloods to survive. He admits easily enough to inducting the missing goldbloods from the City – seducing them away, Tyrell purrs at him, and you hate the fucking bastard, but you could kiss him for that delivery alone – because the Administrators have a sworn duty to their people that he tries to sound much like the same duty you have to your City. You can tell, though, and you’re sure the rest can too, that he doesn’t understand how you did what you did. He doesn’t know about the Guardian or the Pact or what they mean, only the panic after an unannounced metamorphosis and the uncertainty of a changing world. That means they haven’t seduced your children as well as they think they have, if they will still keep close to their hearts, the greatest secrets of your City. He uses big words in a grand, conciliatory tone that tastes practiced to your ears. He’s a leader of old, used to be respected and obeyed without question, so all his explanations sound condescending. 

Phylis catches your eye as the terse meeting ends, and you nod surly as your reunion is stalled again. She and Harlow lead the Administrator and his troupe to a different wing of the House of the Ten, one that has mostly gone unused since it was built, but that the servants have cleaned up and prepared for them. You still don’t like it at all. 

“Makes you want to run a stake through his blithering mouth, doesn’t he.” 

You choke on a snort as Linnea comes to lean on the window next to you. She’s grown colder, over the sweeps. Callous. Still lazy as fuck all, but with this air of indifference that you recognize as unfinished mourning. You lost a moirail, once, one you were dead certain was serendipity’s gift to you. You know how it feels, the hollow it leaves in you and the certainty it’ll never be filled or fixed. You also know sympathy is not a thing that helps, so you keep to yourself and don’t pester the indigoblood unless you need to. She’s grown colder and sharper and ruthless, and not every change is bad. Sometimes change is good. She’s taken to fill in for Dhraid, sometimes, keeping Tyrell in line, and that’s a favor you could love her for. But you secretly hope her grief will pass soon, and she’ll go back to being languid and placid, because then you’ll stop worrying about her turning on you all. You wouldn’t blame her if she did, but you’d have to kill her. And you like Linnea, you really do. 

“Dip it in acid first, then twist it as it goes,” you snort and give her a smirk that’s full of fangs. 

“And now we know why none of _them_ joined the march,” Tyrell muses dryly, coming to join your little window party. 

You weren’t part of the group that visited the goldblood capital, sweeps upon sweeps ago, but even back then, you’re told not even Harlow the Dreamer was allowed direct audience with the Administrators. All was second hand, all was passed along. Phylis once told you most goldbloods don’t even know what the fuckers look like, but their people still follow them all the same. You don’t like it, and you’re glad to see you’re not the only one. You three huddle by the window, sharing snide remarks and remembering old feuds. Linnea and you and Tyrell in Dhraid’s steed. All you need is Spit and Iggy, and you could have a nice goldblood hating party, remembering the old wars. It surprises you and pleases you and worries you and fucking delights you, how easy to hate the goldblood nation is, has been and continues to be. You three there, by the sweet breeze of the open window conjure the fiercest memories of burnt land and spilt blood, and at the same time reach the same conclusion: if goldbloods were like Phylis, things would have been entirely different. 

“I want him dead,” she says, coming out of nowhere and burying herself in your leg without shame. “I want him dead, dead, _dead_ , you don’t fucking understand how much I want that son of a half-bred _bitch_ dead.” You curl an arm around her, as she sits on your forearm and presses her cheek to your chest. “Fuck this shit, I want them _all_ dead.” 

“We were just discussing that, really,” Linnea muses bluntly, without a hint of regret. Phylis nods at her, exhausted. 

You want nothing more than to take her upstairs and touch each inch of skin and make sure nothing is even lightly bruised and then curl up around her and never let her out of your sight again. You refrain, because she hasn’t asked for it, and she wants to know what you were talking about, add her own brand of insults to the mix. It should worry you, maybe, that she hates her own people as fiercely as she does, but they’re goldbloods. If there’s a caste worth hating, it’s them. It should tax her. It should wear on her. But Phylis cares more for the grime stuck on the sole of her shoes than her blood. She could bleed rainbows, for all the swill in her matters. You’ve tasted that swill, and you like it because it’s Phylis’, not because it’s gold and tangy. 

“I brought them here,” she says, after a while, snorting. “And I’m pushing for the allegiance now, but fuck me with my own knives if I wouldn’t prefer to just fucking _cull them all_.” 

“You’re disgraceful at politics,” Tyrell retorts ruthlessly, and Phylis shrugs weakly against your side. “Take her away, Spyros, before she starts snoring at me.” 

Phylis flips a rude hand gesture at him, but all Tyrell does is bow his head almost reverently at her. Linnea nudges him, warningly, but before you can even reach the staircase, they’re gone, leaving the window and the breeze behind. You vanish into the depths of your block and stay there three nights and their days, just listening to Phylis breathe. You have to return her to the world, at the end of that, and you do it with all the reluctance that you can muster. There’s war brewing and the goldbloods might be the lever needed to win it without too many loses. That means Phylis is right at the heart of it, playing a role she never wanted and has never been fit to play. You hate every soul-destroying second of it. 

The song of your horns has grown so dull, you barely register it anymore. 

** ☥ **

For half a sweep, Phylis comes and goes from the City to the goldblood stronghold, back and forth. For half a sweep, you twist with want and nerves and anxiety, making yourself sick with worry every time she makes the journey and then burying all your fears into her skin, once she comes back. For half a fucking sweep, talks are made, attacks are planned, battles are fought. The opposing army starts to take shape, though they’re nomads, shifting through no man’s land as they please, packing up everything and leaving only the barest hints behind. It’s a taxing way to fight a war and trolls in the City have grown complacent, have grown used to war coming to them, instead of them marching out to find it. It reminds you of the old days, and you know you’re not the only one. You join some of the battles, but most of the time you stick to guarding the City, organizing defenses for an attack that never comes. You don’t want battle if you won’t have Phylis fighting by your side, so instead you wait. Harlow bewitches crowd after crowd of trolls, inflaming their little chests with a burning desire to fight and protect and _serve_. Alilah fights when it pleases her and nowhen else, bloodthirsty in an apathetic way of hers that reminds you how much you hope she never gets a taste for murder. Spit herds seadwellers back and forth, and you wonder what truly goes on in the depths, how much he tells you and how much he doesn’t, but you doubt he fancies himself Emperor of jackshit, considering how much he fucking hates to rule. 

“I have a bad feeling about this one, Girlie,” you say, face buried into the nape of her neck. 

“You have a bad feeling about each and every fucking one of them, Big Brute,” she laughs, but doesn’t move. 

Outside the sky is pink still and dusk is waiting, looming. She’ll leave you again today, and the thought makes you sick to the point you feel you’re about to hurl. You’ll go hunting, after she’s gone. Trolls or beasts, you’ll go out and spill blood until it cakes under your claws, and then you’ll come home and sit by a window to wait for her to come back. And you’ll hate every cursed second of it, because she’ll be gone and you’ll be alone. When the war is over, you promise yourself, you’ll speak up to the Council. You’ll raise on your own and offer your first and only motion: to raze the goldblood nation to the ground. Take them in or take them out. No more allegiances. No more blood demanding Phylis away from your side. You make the vow with grim, feral certainty. 

You will end what your forefathers began, and you will put the fucking blood feud to rest. 

“You should take me with you, Archie,” you say, like you always do, “ain’t good, for you to walk into their fucking shit hovel on your own.” 

She turns around, squirming under the weight of your arm, which probably weights more than she does, and leans in to kiss you with teeth and tongue and fire that makes your bones creak. She’ll have to leave soon and there’s little to no time left for this. 

“It’ll be the last time,” she says, because she always says it’ll be the last time except it’s never true. 

She lies to you while staring straight into your eyes and you love her all the more for it, you are sick with love for her, because she loves you enough to tell you lies you won’t believe, for the sake of making you feel better. You crush your mouth to hers again and then roll away, raising from the slab with a grunt. 

“Leave already, or I won’t let you leave at all.” 

She goes. If you could have known those would be your last words to her, you would have said something nicer. Something kinder. You would have tried to put to poetry the typhoon of emotion she causes in your gut. You would have tried to explain each and everything you love about her. But you don’t know you’ll never see her again, and you’ve grown too tired of watching her walk away, to try and stop her. 

Foolishly, you set yourself to wait. 

** ☥ **

The tips of your horns tingle and you're still half asleep as you lounge at the threat, claws extended. You slam into the wall, and _that_ wakes you up. On all fours on the ground, you shake your head to try and make the world stop spinning, and then look around to try and find whatever woke you up. 

She's standing in the center of the room, looking at you with a fond smile. It's not her, not really, it's one of her damn projections, but all the same, it's _her_. 

"The fuck have you _been_?" You roar, unfolding from the ground, baring your teeth at her in annoyance. "Fuck that, where the hell are you _now_? And why the fuck aren't you _here_?" 

She laughs at you, cheeky little shit she is. She laughs with one hand on her mouth, and you know, you _know_ , even if you can't really see it, that her eyes are dancing in amusement. The yellow ghost flickers a little then approaches you, reaching out a hand to touch your cheek. 

"I'm not that far away," she says, voice soft and oddly sad. It rubs you the wrong way, to hear sadness in her voice. She's not meant to be sad, not her. "But I... I don't know, this is taking all I have left, but I suppose I wanted to say good-bye." 

"Archie," you growl, warniningly, "you don't have a habit of making much sense, Girlie, but you're making even less of it than usual. Where the fuck are you? I'll go find you." 

"No," and she shakes her head a little, before looking down. "No, that would not do. I just... I wanted to say good-bye." She looks up at you, shades of yellow light given form by her mind, projected into the middle of your room. And then, she smiles. It's sad and muted and something inside you coils uncomfortably, that band of something that makes you want to tear and rend and _kill_ anything that looks at her the wrong way. "I'm dying, Spyros. I'm going to die when the sun sets." 

"Like fuck are you dying!" You snarl, reaching out to grab her, but she's light, pure light. The farther away from her they are, the less solid her projections get. She feels like nothing against your claws. " _Where_ , Phylis? Tell me where the fuck you are!" 

"It doesn't matter," and she's still _smiling_ at you. "You can't save me. No one really can. I just wanted to see you again, Big Brute. I wanted to say good-bye. And..." 

"And?" The floor is no longer under your feet. The whole room feels like it's melting and inside you something _creaks_. Your bones feel like they're made of foam and your blood slushes inside your veins like the waves at low tide. 

"And I want you to promise me something," her voice drops into a whisper, a little fear and a whole lot of hatred in it. "I want you to promise me you'll hunt them down, Spyros. I want you to swear to me, you'll _make them pay_." 

"Who?" You roar, but she's already fading away, melting into nothing. "WHO, damn you!" 

Outside, dusk falls and the bracelet in your arm burns like boiling oil, to the point the screech that tears your throat is almost as much pain as it is grief. 

** ☥ **

You’re in a daze, a corpse pulled along by strings no one can see. 

She’s dead, and the hollow within you makes it hard to breathe. You don’t want to breathe. You don’t want to live. You want to follow after her, fold down and let the sweet, sweet death take you to where your Phylis is now. You’re in a daze of grief and madness, and the world spins around you without rhyme or reason. You sit in your usual place at the Council room, and you pretend to listen to what the others have to say, but you don’t really listen at all. They talk about betrayal and reinforcements and imminent attack and extermination. You used to know what those words meant, but that was before they took away your soul and cracked your pan in two. You slump through the motions without a thought, because your horns are not singing so much as screaming, one long, never ending scream between your ears. 

She’s dead and you’re not, and if that’s not the greatest injustice in the world, you don’t know what the fuck could compare. 

You survive three days and their three nights, after you died inside. Three days after she vanished in a ghost of gold, the enemy army knocks at your door. They herd you into battle with the rest, the entire City roused to arms once more. You go, because they tell you to, but you hear and see and care about nothing, because inside your head you’re still screaming about loss. You’re missing a limb and the entirety of your organs, when you march out into the front lines, standing at the head of a pack of purplebloods that look at you for guidance because they don’t understand how broken you truly are. You’re numb to their fear and their worry, because what’s waiting for you outside is a fucking army, not a pack of scavengers committing suicide out of desperation. There’s lines and lines of trolls, young and old, orderly placed under a single banner of despicable, hateful gold. 

When you rush into battle, the numbness cracks and falls from you like a stone crust, leaving behind raw suffering. You’re not angry. You’re _agonizing_. You charge forward, at the head of a block of trolls who’ve followed you through meteors and starvation and prophecies and war and death. Now they follow you without knowing you’re only rushing to your death. You howl with grief and cut through the attackers like they’re stalks of grass, crushing them under your claws and your feet. You run over bodies and guts and blood, deaf to anything but the song between your horns, pulsing so hard it feels like your scalp is about to fall off. You hear bones crack and flesh splatter. The frenzy builds up inside you, pushing you forward as you run through a black tunnel towards the light. She shines ahead of you, a kaleidoscope of gold cradling your broken soul between her hands. She’s gone and you’re not, but you’ll catch up with her yet, if you can make yourself reach her. One more step, one more kill. You’re so close and yet never enough. 

You roar as you feel the blade sliding almost sensually across your back. You rolled away, and that saved you a broken spine, but the slash cut through armor and skin. You laugh a deranged laugh, because you know a cut like that would scar, and if it had time to scar, it would ruin the tattoo on your back. It would mar the last piece of her you still have left. But you can’t muster enough of yourself to be angry, then, because she's gone, and you have been drained of all but life itself by now. 

Right now, you pant and bleed and hate and cry your grief, too far gone to tell the difference between the pain of hollowness in your gut and the ache of a thousand bleeding cuts. 

She's gone, and now once more you must relearn to watch your own back because there’s no one left to watch it for you. 

You break through the first wave of attackers, towering over the cowards scattering about and trying in vain to stop you. They stand between you and her, and you wave them off without a second though, not really noticing as you slit throats and cut stomachs open. She’s _gone_. 

And then you die. 

This is the moment you die. 

This is the moment you end. 

Now and not a second after or before, from no greater wound than recognition: in his right hand, the general of the opposing army holds an ornate staff, which he waves back and forth as he commands his troops, and atop that staff sits a skull, the tell-tale white of boiled bone that had the flesh torn off without damaging it in any way, and from that white skull grow still intact two horns, once described like dried tree branches. 

This is the moment you feel yourself die and stand away from all business with this world, because they took your Phylis and made her _this_. So it is not you, who roars so loud and pained and fierce as to make earth shatter under your feet, but the remnants of a fury too strong to realize its owner has since died. 

You feel the chains of reason and sanity snap open and fall at your feet, and mindless, you leap forward to meet your death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter coming up either tomorrow or the day after. Sorry for the ridiculous delay! There were technical problems, like misplacing my laptop and then misplacing the file, and then some rewriting that I couldn't resist adding in for spice.
> 
> The good news is that next chapter I'll finally get to explaining where the fuck Jadebloods come from. It's also mostly finished, just awaiting corrections for consistency.
> 
> The bad news is that we're still playing "guess who's gonna die next?" because I'm a horrible person and I love that game.


	11. Olive ₪ Stoic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Jadeblood Witch: the fable of The Moth and The Scorpion.

** Olive ₪ Stoic **

You walk through the lines of trolls at a leisure pace. You can feel them all but vibrating with nervous energy every time your gaze falls on them. As well they should. You dislike overlooking military exercises, truth be told, but you have a gift for it. You’ve always had a great gift for discipline, after all. You work with the youngest, freshest additions to your army, instilling into them the core values that will carry them through their careers. It’s an ungrateful task, but if the last war taught you something, is that a good army is not something to scoff at. You don’t know when the next war will come, but you know for a fact it will. You miss spending whole days looking after your children, creating beauty instead of teaching wigglers how to murder effectively, but you know better than to complain about it. It’s still early yet, and you have a long night ahead of you, once you’re done with them here, but you pore yourself diligently to your task. 

“My lord! My lord!” 

You see a blueblood rushing toward you, expression terrified. You clear your throat sharply, and the cadets around you go back to practicing their sword technique, or at least pretending they’re doing so, while watching avidly as you walk towards the harried messenger. 

“Yes?” You ask, voice bland and face carefully arranged into indifference, as the young woman nearly collapses on her knees before you. “Mind your posture, it is disgraceful.” 

“Drones,” she gasps, attempting to stand to attention, “there are drones coming, my lord.” 

You allow yourself a minute frown at her comment, before you stalk away, coat billowing violently behind you. The Great Mother has largely removed herself from the common affairs of trolls after she refused to aid either side of the war, following the goldblood rebellion. You don’t necessarily fault her reasoning, considering during those battles, unlike the fateful one right before the Pact was established, her children fought on both sides. Unreasonable to ask a parent to choose between children like that, really. Most of the Council didn’t see it that way, however. Not after losing Phylis the way you did, and certainly not after what befell Spyros as a result. Sometimes you think that if the Great Mother had made a choice, things would be vastly different now. Nonetheless, no one has seen her or her drones outside of her temple in half a decade. 

The sight that greets you as you reach the outskirts of the small village is disconcerting. The small cluster of hives is hardly half a day on foot from the City itself, built specifically for military training. You designed most of the system yourself, with some input from Ulyses, to distance trolls from quadrants and family and guilds, and allow them to focus on the extensive, grueling training they must go through before being officially stationed into a platoon. The rundown conditions are all carefully maintained, so they will suffer worse in your hands, than they ever could, in the actual battlefield. There is no splendor here, no luxury. Only duty at her most callous. Even so, the cluster of drones click and hiss at the archway, looking as you remember them: black and alien and terrifying. They keep their formation easily, flanking a large, winged creature that greatly resembles the Great Mother, white and horned. But it is the small child sitting on its head, holding onto a horn, that completes the bizarre scene. 

“Greetings,” says the child, sliding off the Great Mother’s offspring with enough ease it seems like floating, “The Great Mother sends her best regards. Would you kindly escort us to City? I require an audience with the Council.” 

The child wears the robes all children are given when they emerge out of their chrysalis, solid black and shapeless. The sign pained on it, however, is the Great Mother’s, in bright, unmistakable jade. You keep your face impassive, despite the strangeness of the situation, and after a moment nod shallowly. The child smiles, teeth a collection of sharp fangs, and with a careless hand wave, the drones are dismissed. At once, they scurry away, clicking obnoxiously, leaving only the small troll and what you can only assume now is a lusus. You give your lieutenant a short string of orders, before you set out toward the City looming imperiously in the distance. 

You can’t shake the feeling things are bound to get interesting, though perhaps not necessarily for your best interests. 

** ₪ **

The child is, impossibly, a jadeblood. 

And yet, also a troll. 

The Council greets him with skepticism and slight unease, and you don’t exactly blame them, because the child is also unsettling in a very understated way. It also does not help that the first thing Iggy did upon entering the hall was to bow so low you expected his forehead to touch the floor. Not even a perigee old, and yet the answers come sharp and almost scathing, from a mind that seems older than all of you combined. The Great Mother has sent you this strange child, who is very much a troll and yet carries her blood and perhaps even more, to grow among trolls and learn of you and from you. Harlow wants to embrace the gesture as a peace offering, Spit is certain something disastrous will follow and Alilah looks uneasy like she always does around younger trolls. Without any clear direction from the trio, you turn your eyes to the survivors of your little deranged dream: Ulyses is intrigued, Linnea is wary and Iggy is uncomfortably servile. Not for the first time, you wish Dhraid would be here to set order and force them to cut the nonsense short. One of the things you always hated about her was the ease with which she made others fall over themselves to comply with her wishes. 

“What exactly does the Great Mother requires of us?” Harlow asks after a moment. 

You see the child smile and for the first time in very long feel an urge to reach for a drink. It’s an unpleasant hook of a smile, eerie in ways that make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Another casual look around your half empty circle, and you see reactions much the same. 

“She requires a caretaker,” the child says, eyes wide and mock innocent. “For the child of her blood. I’m not a drone, but she wishes me to grow and learn and then eventually go back and serve her with what I have learned.” A giggle escapes that small mouth, and the sound rakes the insides of your skull like claws. “Truth is she doesn’t know what to do with me. So she sends me to you, to see if you will be able to tame me into something that’ll be of use for her.” 

“If you’re not a drone, then what are you?” Alilah’s expression darkens somewhat, as the child does not flinch away from her stare. 

She is clearly not used to things that do not bow to her. This child, you think, will never bow to anything or anyone, and the notion that the Great Mother expects this… this _creature_ to serve her in the future strikes you as hilarious. You keep your laughter locked away in the depths of your mind, much like you do with everything else. You can see it in Spit’s face, the certainty that he’s reached the same conclusion as you, but he is far less skillful than you, when it comes to masking his expression. 

“A witch,” the child sing-songs, smile full of fangs and eyes full of knowledge. “Would you like to see~?” 

“That won’t be necessary,” you interrupt, and quietly take note of the way the young grey eyes fix on you with something like contempt, for daring to disrupt the game. You feel the weight of other eyes on you, as well, the usual mistrust that you’ve grown to find comforting. “If it is a caretaker you need, I will take upon that duty.” You let your lips curve into a sharp smile, before the protests can properly echo. “As it was decided.” 

“How did you know?” The child demands, imperiousness tugging brows into a fearsome frown. “You didn’t read my mind, I would have known.” 

“I know your kind,” you say, standing up from your seat with a careless shrug. 

And then you walk away and refuse to partake in any more discussion about the matter. When Harlow calls out your name, trying to bring you back, all it takes is a well-placed look to make the prophet wilt and let you be. You will take care of the jadeblood witch, then, and that is not something that any arguing amongst the Council can change. But you see no need for you to stay and listen to their nonsense or their naïve attempts to question the child. You know witches, oh, you know them well. There’s nothing in the world that can make a witch share the secrets that have been entrusted to their care. Far rarer than even psionics or psychics, witches. Far deadlier. The City is not ready for a witch to walk its streets, and its inhabitants are not prepared to handle the wrath of one. The child will bring chaos and discord. The waters haven’t calmed yet, in the wake of the goldblood rebellion and the great war that followed it. Trust and bridges were irreparably burnt, the night Phylis died, and even if you won, the damage was too severe to be undone. You have drafted many laws, since the war ended, trying in vain to recapture some of the peace and give trolls a measure of certainty. You still refuse to resign yourself to the end of an era of prosperity, but the arrival of the jadeblood might make you reconsider your stand on that. 

You retire to your quarters with long, purposeful strides, reminding yourself that retreating is not in itself the same as running away, and permit yourself to glare at the servants you encounter, even without a concrete reason for it. A bit of extra discipline never hurt anyone, you suppose. The block you’ve always claimed as your own has never been particularly lavish in its decorations, but given that you had been living in the training village up to this point, it looks positively barren. You can’t find it in yourself to really care. You drape yourself on the rest slab, flinging an arm over your face as you do. A witch. In the City. If you didn’t know for a fact that god is a midget with a white ball for a head, living on the moon, you’d entrust the fate of the city to his mercy. 

“It won’t be so bad, you know,” the voice echoes, and you do not startle only out of sheer, strenuous effort of will. “You and I. There’s a pattern there, to play out. It will be just like the old times~” 

You sit up on the slab to find the rascal leaning on your windowsill. You do not question how. A witch comes and goes on whim. Everything about them is pure whim. You feel something rustle in the back of your mind, something terrible and old that you locked away when you decided to stop being a victim of the circumstances. You banish the monster back to the depths and refuse to let this child disrupt the careful order of your world, witch or not. You are too old to be played like that. 

“It will be nothing of the sort,” you say, unfazed by that smile. Your eyes narrow. “You asked for a caretaker, not for a companion.” 

Because witches need companions. You know how this works, and that is precisely why you were chosen for the role, even if you are not entirely sure by whom. A witch’s companion is their rock and center, the closest thing to a leash they will ever have. You want to laugh again at the preposterous notion of making a servant out of a witch. The Great Mother is ancient and powerful, but even she bows down to greater things. Witches are fickle, insignificant creatures with the power to make reality their plaything, because they exist outside order and rules and law. 

“I already chose one,” the child says, eyes dancing with amusement. “He’ll arrive soon enough.” 

“Very well,” you say, though there is absolutely nothing in this situation that could aspire to be _well_. “Where is your lusus?” 

The child smiles and produces the creature from within the sleeves of the robe. You spare a thought of almost compassion for the warped thing, forced by the whims of its child into such a miserable size. What a ridiculous notion, giving a lusus to a witch. Witches don’t need protection from anything other than themselves. You doubt the creature will live for long, subject to the capricious nature of its charge. 

“She won’t listen to you,” the child interrupts your thoughts, a second before the idea solidifies in your mind. Yet again, you refuse to react to it with anything other than a scoff. “The Great Mother is too old and too used to things going her way, to understand what I am.” 

“Do _you_ understand what you are?” You taunt in return, refusing to concede even an inch. 

“We are the remnants of the Song,” the child says, pressing his lips to his lusus and blowing it away into a shower of dust and glitter. “There are troll witches and animal witches and sea witches and wind witches and earth witches, because She sang us all into being and then sank into the void to fuck Herself with Her own limbs.” Small hands reach out to catch the twirling glitter between them, clasping tight before opening again. The lusus, still ridiculous in size, flutters whole once more, dazed. “I am the First jadeblood and the Last witch, and if she is my Mother, then you will, by necessity, be my Father.” Your eyes narrow at the laugh that follows. “But that’s not the question you should be asking. You should be asking _who_ , rather than what, Hetair, the Penitent.” 

The knife whistles as it crosses the room in an arc, coming to a stop as it embeds itself in the child’s throat. There is no gurgling or choking or even a ghost of wet breathing, however. With all the carelessness of the world, the child plucks the blade out and flicks it back to you, dry and clean. There is no wound, no bleeding, no nothing. Before it can reach you, the knife bursts into a dozen black and white moths that flutter up to the ceiling and then escape through the window in a rush of wings. 

“I expect you to replace the knife.” 

The child laughs again. 

“I expect you to rediscover your sense of humor, Tyrell, the Conductor.” 

The thing in your mind stirs again. You shove it away, again. 

“Reading minds will do you little good, when it comes to learning.” You don’t flinch as the child crawls onto the rest slab, coming to curl up against your side. “I will whip you if you do it again.” 

“I will make it rain flesh-eating worms for a week if you do,” the child threatens back, petulant. And then pouts and squirms until your hand is resting between asymmetrical horns. “And I have a name. The least you could do is think of me by name, instead of just ‘child’.” 

You finger thin, almost fuzzy hair and resist the urge to sink your claws into that small skull until you crush it. It wouldn’t do you any good. 

“Must you always have the last word?” 

Another unpleasant laugh. 

“Yes.” 

** ₪ **

“You don’t have to do this.” 

You look up to find Harlow in your doorway. You feel a wave of shallow contempt for the prophet as he steps further into the room. He’s worried about you, the fool. He’s always worried about you. His insistence to meddle with your affairs annoys you, but you’ve always made it a sport to resist your irritation and refuse to acknowledge it properly. You finish up your letter for Dhraid, pausing to stab a finger with the quill so you can sign in blood. It’s an antiquated tradition, which you only indulge in because Dhraid herself is a lady of antiquated habits and she hates it when you patronize her like that. 

“Do you have something of substance to say?” You carefully fold the paper, pressing down the creases before pulling a stick of sealing wax from one of your drawers. 

“I know why you think you should do this,” Harlow insists, refusing to take your dismissal and instead coming to stand close to you. “But you don’t have to.” 

“You think you know more than you actually do, Dreamer,” you stand up, absently shrugging off the hand on your shoulder, and fix him with a severe glare. He wilts, but not nearly enough to your liking. “And you should at the very least know better than to try and _bully_ me with your wretched dreams.” 

He looks like he wants to say more, so you merely walk out of the room, heading to the garden where Dhraid’s personal messenger awaits. To your supreme irritation, Harlow follows after you. You ignore him as best you can, coming to stand at the center of the clearing and raising your left arm invitingly. The featherbeast lands on it with a thunderous screech, talons not quite sinking into flesh. The feathers are a luscious green, somewhere between your blood and hers, that seems to gleam in the moonlight. Leather binds the creature, Dhraid’s sign seared into it, right across its chest. You spare a thought of envy for Dhraid’s luck, as she has time to tame beasts to do her biding, while you are stuck here, struggling to make soldiers out of children. And now, the jadeblood. You rub your knuckles underneath a beak that could easily tear off a finger, before you slide your letter into the harness. Harlow watches you with a frown, as you throw your arm up and send the creature flying, wordlessly. 

“I was there,” he says, eventually, “the night she died. I dreamed it.” 

“And yet you understand nothing,” you reply, lips quirked unpleasantly. “It isn’t about having to do something or not,” you go on, folding your hands into the sleeves of your coat. “It is about a bargain and a promise.” 

“You didn’t promise _this_.” He is a fool. You smile at him, because he is frustrated and your smile only serves to frustrate him more. “Even I know that much. She—“ 

You’re on the floor before you can really think about it, one hand wrapped around his throat and the other fingering a knife. Harlow stares up at you with the terrified eyes of a troll that has never truly come close to dying at someone else’s hand. The thing in the back of your mind shakes again, trying to awaken, but it only takes you three breaths to quiet it down again. You don’t let go of the prophet, though. 

“You will not speak of her,” you say, caressing the side of his face with the tip of the blade, and watching the way sweat slowly beads over his forehead. “This one thing, Harlow the Dreamer, is not yours to touch. This is sacred, more so than the Pact, more so than your Prophecy, more so than the Guardian’s bargain. This is the one thing, in the entire world, that is mine and mine alone. And you will not speak of it. You will not think about it. You will not taint it with your filthy, ignorant _shit_.” You bare your teeth at him, slowly closing your hand around his throat. “Because this is the one thing I will kill you for. For this, I will raze your city to the ground and immolate everything you’ve built to the altar of my faith. This is _my_ Holy Dream, prophet, and you will not ruin it. Your mouth is too filthy and your tongue is too blackened to speak of her. I will say it one last time, _you will not speak of her_. Or I will consider your life and all you’ve ever held dear to be forfeit.” 

You let go of him, sliding the knife back into your sleeve and dusting your clothes as you stand. You’re not angry, not really. You haven’t felt lasting anger – or joy or sadness or remorse or hope or anything at all – in a very long time. But your passion to your duty and the strength of your devotion can be convincingly deceiving. You even offer him a hand, to help him back on his feet. The limeblood shakes slightly, clutching at his useless glaive. 

“I’m worried about you,” he says, once he’s found the words he thinks will least offend you. He looks positively miserable. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Only a fool,” you say, turning to leave, “would waste his worry on someone like me.” 

** ₪ **

Albali – for you concede to call him by name now – has chosen a blueblood child for a companion. You let Ulyses believe his permission matters in some fashion, if only so the irritating man will leave you be. As such, you are now officially in charge of two very problematic rascals that wreak havoc everywhere they go. Albali-the-witch and Mandee-the-scorpion, as they are known these days, barely reach above your knee and still somehow manage to disrupt everything around them by sheer presence alone. Still, most of your psychic children are dead by now, lost to wars or age or sickness, and you find yourself less and less involved in the political affairs of the City as sweeps go by. Things have changed in ways you don’t wholly approve of, but you are also aware you are not entirely in a position to make much of a change, either. The less you care the less influence you wield, and while you acknowledge this, you find yourself too occupied with the children in your care, to do anything about it. 

By the time they’re four, bureaucracy was advanced enough that a secondary council has been put in place, reporting directly to the survivors of the Pact. You don’t like it. You’ve all grown old and the City and assorted territories have grown too large to manage like you once did, so the band of hopeful, servile snakes is necessary, but you don’t like it. It’s fragmenting the power that held you together, introducing variables that will inevitably lead to failure. There will be squabbles over this, and eventually civil war. But you’ve seen your end hiding somewhere in the depths of Albali’s eyes, your fate chained to the designs of the witch. By the time the fractures shatter and the City you helped built crumbles into nothing, you will be gone. The thought soothes you, as you go about your nights, following after the witch and his companion, serving as an intermediary between the chaos he all but breathes and the poor unsuspecting trolls that don’t know any better. 

“Albali.” 

You don’t need to turn to know the child is glaring at you. You tilt your head back to look at him over your shoulder anyway, just for the pleasure of watching him puff up his cheeks in annoyance. He has the blueblood limply sprawled on his lap, one of his claws all but touching his right eye. You arch an eyebrow until the jadeblood huffs again and releases Mandee. The small blueblood lets out a soft sigh and squirms away to curl up at the other side of the rug, absently rubbing his face with a fist. 

“One day,” Albali says, with the self-important tones of a witch, “I will figure out how you know.” 

“I know your kind,” you say, rolling up the scroll and putting it on the table. After a moment, Mandee squirrels up into your lap, requiring no more comfort than simply sitting there. “That is all you need to know.” 

“I want to know the story,” he insists, grey eyes peering up at you like daggers. “I know it’s there, but for all rake I can’t see. All I know it’s there.” 

“The first rule,” you reply, with calm and aplomb even as you shift Mandee enough so you can go back to work, “is what, Albali?” 

“That which a witch does, cannot be undone by anyone but them.” The quill in your hand melts into a snake, and only quick reflexes allow you to stab it with a knife, before it bites you. Ink spreads in a puddle, ruining your work and threatening to drip onto your clothes. “Your witch made you forget.” 

You smile at him, because the words will not come to your lips, not even if you actually wanted them to. You delight yourself in the frustration evident in his face. You smile even as you feel claws tracing the insides of your skull and know the resulting migraine will take nearly four hours to leave. He is everything he could possibly want to be, because he’s the last remnant of the Song, the last true witch trollkind will ever know. He is pure potential, limited only by his own desires. Your only defense, the only possible defense there is, is to revel in that which he cannot understand. He will be fearsome one day, this you know for certain, too little of a troll, too much of a monster to be anything else. So you do what trolls do best, and keep your secrets buried behind your lips. 

He mystifies the Pact, or what remains of the Pact. Ulyses tries in vain to befriend him, thinking his choice of a companion denotes some kind of preference for blood. But you’ve always known Ulyses for a fool, so you don’t even attempt to stop him. Linnea doesn’t trust him, all the more because she was not chosen to look after him; she, who among you all, has served as mother to her children above and beyond all duty. She avoids him as best she can, locking and barring the doorway to her library, for all the good that does her. Iggy offers him reverence without truly knowing what he bows to, because Iggy is even less of a troll than him, and he can’t possibly understand what he’s doing. Spit despises him, out of sheer self-preservation, mistrust and scorn coloring every single interaction, which in turn only serves to make Albali all the more interested in annoying the seadweller in every possible way he can. Alilah is testy and cautious around him, but you have noticed the way she looks at him, with a quiet yearning for something familiar. And Harlow… Harlow looks at Albali and then at you, and his eyes soften and his smile falters, and you wish to take his sympathy and his knowledge and murder him with it. For all he knows, he understands the least of them all. They’ve grown old and bitter and dumb, the whole lot of them. To be jaded is an art, to find the exact balance between expecting the worst and yet still give it your best. The problem with these trolls, the problem with all trolls, really, is that their hopes weight them down. Not because they’ve gone unfulfilled, but because once they are done with them they don’t know what to do with them. They think of endings and beginnings and don’t realize the world will keep on going with or without them. You think of the harshness of the lesson learned, the soft plea buried deep in the back of your mind, bound by a smile and a promise. The ache spreads, sweet and unforgiving, and you can still feel Albali prodding and taunting, trying to pin down the cause of it. He won’t, because he can’t. 

You resolve to think of Dhraid instead. 

You shift your hold on Mandee, cradling the boy in one arm before you stand up. He shifts until he’s comfortable, head resting on your shoulder. He weights nothing to you; a small sack of bones and pain and kindness that will one day get him killed, if he’s lucky. If he’s not, he’ll survive long enough to learn what you have and perhaps understand hatred the way you do. 

“Where are we going?” Albali asks demandingly, having sheathed his claws and instead reaching a hand to grab your free one. 

“Out,” you say, feeling tiny fingers hold onto your own with entirely too much strength. 

You lead them out into the gardens, ignoring the eyes following your every move. They mistake your resignation for love, you know. They see devotion where there’s only practice and detachment. You walk leisurely across the paths, feeling the boy in your arms slowly coming down from his panic and the monster holding your hand getting lost in the quiet. You always walk along the same route, absently tracing Dhraid’s favorite route across the city. When you reach your old bench, where sweeps ago you two sat and argued until the sun rose and you were forced to seek shelter from the light, you bend down to place Mandee on the ground, ignoring his unsteady feet. He looks up at you with revolting sweetness, before he turns back to his owner and master, smiling guilelessly even as Albali reaches out to drag him away. You sit back to watch the sky, trying to remember the name of stars and constellations you once knew by heart. At some point, Albali releases their lusii from their cage under their skin and turns half the garden’s trees into ice. 

You don’t give a single, solitary fuck about it. 

** ₪ **

It begins, you think, like everything involving the jadeblood: out of something insignificant. 

Most of the time, Albali prefers to keep to Mandee’s company. He doesn’t like most other trolls, which suits you just fine, and the few he does, he demonstrates by trying to screw with them to the best of his ability. Whispers and rumors curl around him, from his blood to his powers to your guardianship, but the City in general seems content to simply side-step the jadeblood as he goes about causing disaster everywhere he goes. You have tried, to the best of your ability, to keep him away from children, but your opinions on the matter have been overruled by the Pact and their good intentions. There are no other jadebloods for him to grow up with, no other jadebloods from whom he can learn, but because he chose a blueblood for a companion, the Pact summarily offered him more bluebloods as playmates. You didn’t object, when they proposed the idea to him, because you knew it was too late for it to have any meaning. 

In retrospect, this has been coming for a long time, really, so you shouldn’t be surprised. You notice the tense posture in Albali, and stand back almost just to watch, because there’s nothing you can do about it now. 

“Let it drop,” Mandee pleads, tugging at the witch’s sleeve. “I will buy you a new one.” 

“One of you,” Albali hisses, ignoring his companion and instead glowering at the circle of rascals teasing him, “took my sash. I want it back.” 

“Albali—“ 

“Why don’t you guess?” One of the children asks, sneering at him without really knowing what he’s sneering at. “You’re a witch, aren’t you? Figure it out!” 

Albali snarls at him, livid. Stupid thing to do, enrage a witch. It’s just child play, because that’s how children play, but Albali is not a child, for all he looks like one, with his wide, still-grey eyes. Albali is the worst kind of monster there is, one that doesn’t look like a monster at all. There’s a flurry of movement as Albali lunges for the boy that taunted him, seemingly missing his mark entirely. Except when he turns around, he has a sword in his hand. You can’t tell if he conjured it or took it from someone else, but that doesn’t matter when the next thing he does is stab Mandee in the gut. 

Time crawls to a stop as the blueblood gasps, staring dumbly at the blade. 

There’s a gasp, somewhere behind Albali, as blood drips down the length of the blade and begins to pool on the floor. 

“God, shut up,” the jadeblood growls in annoyance, as Mandee looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes. “I can’t think with you whining at my ear.” 

“Why would you—“ 

Albali turns to the source of that complaint, eyes narrowed, as the youngest of his playmates steps forward, the contested sash in hand. As he pulls the sword free of Mandee’s body, the boy lets out a pitiful sound, as if life had been returned to him, but it isn’t enough to stop the witch from swiftly decapitating the guilty blueblood. Just like that, a well-placed slice that you absently admire for its flawless technique. Decapitation is a delicate art, it often requires both strength and precision to avoid making a fool of one’s self. 

But there it is, at six sweeps old, his first murder. There’s something unreal and nonsensical about the scene, even though you have been expecting him to turn to murder since the night he arrived. It’s almost dreamlike, the splatters of blood on the ground, the horrified expressions on every one present, the terrified whine wrecking Mandee’s throat. Everything is diffused and unfocused, like fragments that don’t quite fit together. 

“Albali,” you find yourself saying, voice flat, but when you try to push more words through, nothing else comes. 

The thing in your head trembles, straining against its bounds. Mandee falls to his knees, tears streaming down his face. The rest of the children slowly step back, fear so thick in the air it almost makes you gag. You wonder, absently, how you will explain this to the others, what kind of reaction it’ll get. 

Albali crumples into a cloud of moths, jade and white and not unlike his lusus, and flies away, up and up into the sky, well beyond the clouds. 

** ₪ **

The Pact makes a pitiful attempt at searching for the jadeblood, but you know it is futile. Wherever he has gone, he will not be found until he wants to. In the meantime, you’re left with the ungrateful task of cleaning up after him and caring for Mandee. It is mostly due to Harlow’s unconditional support that you are allowed to do as you please, and you resolve to resent him for it just on principle. If you were still capable of such things, you would feel sorry for the boy, so broken already at such a young age. He is nothing but what he has been made to be, though, and there’s nothing to be done to help him be anything else. And if he’s broken, then perhaps he won’t be shattered in the long run. 

“Is it my fault?” Mandee asks you, crawling into your lap and disturbing your work. “Because I didn’t love him like I should?” 

“You don’t have to love him,” you say, because it’s the truth, shifting to seat him properly, and card your fingers through his hair. “You just have to be with him, when he needs you to be, and he will be with you, when you truly need him in return.” You feel the brush of something in your mind, delicate and tentative, in contrast with Albali’s reckless probing. “Mandee.” 

The boy flinches. 

“I’m sorry,” and he buries his face into your chest, “I’m sorry, it just _happens_.” Training someone with his powers has proven harder than training your psionic children, not only because you dare not stake a claim on the boy as you did with the others, but also because his talents run in an entirely different vein. “I want to know.” 

“You do not,” you smile, and you know it is not a pleasant smile, tilting his chin up so you can stare into those mismatched eyes. “But I will tell you, anyway, because he is gone and you should know.” 

His right eye is still grey, without a hint of the blue that will eventually come to fill it out, but his right eye is split in seven, pupils moving in tandem and giving him a rather eerie appearance. Vision-eightfold, Ulyses called it, supposedly a rare trait of blueblood psychics. Ulyses, like most trolls, knows nothing of the world and how it works, so he simply assumed Albali had chosen him for his powers, and not because he was destined to. But you let him believe that, like you let everyone else think they know anything, because it’s not their right to command your secrets. 

“Once upon a time,” you intone, after a moment, and marvel at the preciseness of such words, for indeed it was upon _a_ time, and not _this_ one, “children gathered to play a game. They came from all over the land, answering the call of the eldest, who was also both the wisest and the most foolish of them all. From beyond the mountains and the seas, even from the skies, the children came. Forty eight of them, varying in temperament and personality, but all willing to play, they answered the call. 

“I propose a new game, said the eldest, rising himself to stand above his friends, who were also his enemies, I propose we play to become gods. And his friends, who were also his enemies, agreed, because their land was dying and it would be so much fun, they thought, to become gods and make the land anew. So they played their game, to the best of their abilities, but because they were both enemies and friends at once, most of the original children died before they could win. Some of them came back, and some of them did not, but when they stood in the land that they had made themselves, they realized exactly what they had done and all that had been lost.” 

Mandee shifts in your grasp, curling up in response to the unsaid. You have never really like this story. You didn’t like it, when it was told to you, and you don’t like it now, when you have to pass it on to the next generation. Not that it will do him any good, not that it has any point. But it must be done, if nothing else, because that is how it is supposed to go. Your feelings or his don’t really matter in the great scale of things, and that is a lesson he needs to understand. 

“So the god children who had made the land anew decided to become something else, when they realized being gods was so very boring, once they had nothing new to create. They took themselves, what they thought made them themselves, and scattered into the land they had made, before they vanished into the stars, where they could finally rest. And then the Singer came, from the edge of the void, and she saw the ghosts of the god-children who had played a game and won and lost, and used her voice to turn their ghosts into something else entirely. Something new. Something without memories or knowledge, but that still retained their power and their will. And to that she added her own power and her will, and reveled in the monstrosities that she had conjured.” 

“Witches,” Mandee whispers softly, small shoulders shaking as he hides his face into your chest. 

“Witches, who are neither gods nor songs, only monsters who exist outside everything, who do not even know what they are.” You smile, carding your fingers through his hair. “Do you know why witches have companions, Mandee?” The boy whimpers, his mind creaking under the weight of your own, now open to him entirely. You are overwhelming him, and you know it. “Because they are too much to be themselves. They need a vessel upon which to empty the excess of themselves. A faithful vessel, who will stay with them no matter what they do, who will never leave them, because they are in essence part of themselves.” The boy tries to pull away, but you hold him in place, hands the side of his head holding onto frail shoulders, claws digging through cloth into skin. “You’re not a companion, boy, you are his property. You were made to be with him, the first whim. He is your master, your owner, your very soul. You exist for him. No matter what you do, no matter what you say, how much you love him, how much you hate him, you will never be anything other than his.” You are unmoved by his tears, unfazed by his struggles to get away. “So no, it is not your fault that he has gone, nor is it your fault that he left you behind. He will be back. Take what comfort you can, in the fact he will never abandon you, and cease this nonsense of trying to be a troll.” 

It takes him a week to come back, after he runs out of the room. You do not ask him where he’s been, nor you deny him the scarce comfort of your presence. But, you think, he might be finally fostering the first seeds of true hatred. You fancy he might yet survive, then. 

** ₪ **

“I don’t understand you.” 

You look up to find Alilah standing behind you, expression the same unhappy frown she seems to reserve just for you. In the clearing, Harlow is busy breaking another blood taboo and teaching Mandee the subtle art of not killing. Even after all these sweeps, most castes preserve their own iconic fighting styles, and the limeblood techniques are among those. There really isn’t much use for them, considering the whole point of them was to secure a truce that doesn’t matter anymore, but you guess they will survive another generation. You find the ease with which the boy takes to the lessons somewhat sickening, though you suppose with his powers you should have expected it. Empaths are always ill-suited to be murderers, and not for the first time you wonder how ill-suited for everything Mandee is, grand destiny or not. He’s too soft and too kind and too malleable, already acting like Albali was nothing but a bad dream. Like the truths you’ve shared with him are nothing more than grubtales to scare him into compliance. You would feel disdain for him, if you didn’t understand how truly hopeless he is. 

“You are not the only one,” you say, offering her the barest hint of a smile as she comes sit by your side. 

“You relish in that,” Alilah mutters somewhat exasperated, as she folds a leg over the other and then drops her hands on her lap. She looks almost docile and the entire posture seems entirely too stiff and deliberate to be natural. “I think.” 

Her eyes turn to her matesprit, carefully walking Mandee through the exercise, nudging here and pulling there, hands gentle and almost loving. There’s something wistful in the way she looks at them that reminds you of your own children. You wonder when the fuchsia wigglers will come. You wonder if any of the limebloods already growing up in the city are secretly half monstrosity from the depths. It doesn’t really matter, in the end, because generations to come will not know parenthood the way yours did. In a couple hundred sweeps, words like ‘mother’ and ‘father’ and ‘son’ and ‘daughter’ will be meaningless. And Alilah, you think, will never be a mother. Not the way Linnea once was. You honestly don’t think motherhood would suit her at all, but you let her yearn and imagine, because it’s none of your business what fantasies entertain her thoughts. If she wishes to be naïve and foolish, that is solely her choice. 

“I don’t really care,” you admit, smiling to yourself just because it makes her frown deepen. 

“I don’t believe you.” 

You blink in surprise, looking up at her with something like disdain. You care very little for what she does or doesn’t believe, but there is something in her tone that tickles your fancy. A challenge. You find it somewhat ridiculous that she would try to engage you that way, but you do not have a particularly close relationship with her. You don’t have a particularly close relationship with anyone, really, and these days you consider your black intentions towards Dhraid to have been a remarkably obtuse lapse of judgment. If things were different, however, you think you would have liked to be friends with Alilah. If you had met her before it all went to hell the way it did, you think she would have been a friend worth having. 

She out of them all reminds you of your mistress, though you can’t quite put your finger on why. Perhaps it is the way Alilah seems so keenly aware of how different she is, how much she doesn’t belong among you. There is always something guarded and forced in her, which you think most would be stupid enough to mistake for dignity. You have always noticed how… artificial her mannerisms are. Every gesture, every word, every look. Each and every one of them is calculated and thought out. You sometimes wonder what is truly hiding behind such carefully constructed appearance, but the thought never holds your interest for long. Everyone has always seen her fascination with tradition and custom as an attempt to make up for her isolation in the depths, but you have always seen her attempts to blend it more like a carefully calculated farce. You wonder how well do her quadrants know her, or if they too take her at face value and refuse to see deeper. Either way, you suppose, it doesn’t matter. 

“What you do or do not believe is inconsequential,” you say, shrugging absently. “Despite Harlow and Alston trying so hard to convince you of it, truth does not change to suit your tastes, Alilah.” 

“It needs not to,” she replies, almost arrogant, before she shifts her posture. “I don’t understand you, but that doesn’t mean I wish you ill.” She smirks, amused. “Despite your best attempts, Tyrell, I don’t think any of us left really does.” 

It jolts something in the back of your mind, a faint whisper of emotion that you ruthlessly stomp down before you can even acknowledge what it is. You have been alone for far too long, that you suppose it is not unreasonable for them to think you might finally give in to the yearning for companionship. Your children are dying, most of them already gone, and your task of looking after Albali and Mandee must seem strange to them. But they are creatures bound by emotion and whims and all those silly things that make them trolls. And you are most emphatically not a troll. Not really. Not anymore. You know they have always mistaken your possessiveness over your children as true paternal love and devotion, unable to understand that your true loyalties lie with your duty. You have never loved a child you claimed as your own, not even those you carried in your gut, flesh of your flesh and blood of your blood. It is not your nature, nor your destiny, nor a feasible possibility, and has not been for a very long time. 

Alilah looks at you with the same inquisitive look of Dhraid’s pet messengers, avian and foreign, scrutinizing your face for a clue to your reaction, scourging for a sign of weakness. She will find none, of course, because they simply do not exist. You have weaknesses, of course, but they are not the kind someone like Alilah or indeed any other troll on the planet could understand. They still aim for emotion, all of them. They look for things that are not rational, and worst of all, they do not realize it. 

“That continues to be irrelevant and not particularly important to me.” 

And it is the truth, in every sense of the word, but you doubt she will understand or believe it. That, however, is also none of your concern. 

** ₪ **

By nature, you distrust anything that proves itself unnecessarily convenient. If nothing else, because you know enough of the world to understand that _nothing_ is unnecessarily convenient by nature. So when Albali returned, exactly a night and a sweep after his departure, clad in fine, jade silks and with the sword of murder hanging ostentatiously off his belt, you braced yourself for disaster. But when he announced he had only come to collect both his companion and his caretaker, and that his intentions were to roam the world for a while and leave the City to its own devices, you were certain tragedy could not be far behind. 

Indeed, you found yourself packing bare necessities whilst you fought off increasingly forceful attempts by the members of the Pact to dissuade you and make you stay. Harlow, you could understand, given his natural penchant to meddle and his misguided need to help. Alilah and Spit, perhaps moved by their closeness with the prophet, or even justified from a political standpoint, you tolerated and rebuked almost politely. Linnea’s insistence that once children grew one should cease to worry about them was so painfully out of character you had not known what to make out of it. And then there was Ulyses, nitpicking and piling work on your plate, trying to make you reconsider your decision. The only one among the survivors of your great adventures that did not feel the need to argue with you was Iggy, and by then you realized it was because Iggy understood your commitment to Albali mirrored his to his ‘quiet ones’. You felt disgust over such weakness among the Pact. Even if you had had a choice in the matter, you would have still chosen to leave, just as a protest to such nonsensical behavior. Yes, the sweeps had cost you comrades and the loss had weakened you as a whole, but their pitiful attempts to close ranks annoyed you. You’re not family. You are not kin. You are allies at best, complete monsters at worst. To pretend something stronger or kinder than duty binds you together is all but heresy to you, because they don’t know _you_. 

Thus, as you walked out of the city, closing up the small group, you did not look back. You were annoyed by the City and the Pact and the foolishness of trolls, who do not understand the inevitability of disaster. It was not bad, in the beginning, to walk the world again. With nothing but Albali’s whims to guide you, you content yourself with telling stories – but never _the_ story, that which Albali covets more than anything in the world, the one not even Mandee is allowed to know – and humoring the witch’s whims. Sometimes you hunted for food, sometimes you stayed in inns, sometimes you slept in caves, sometimes you walked down the main street of a foreign land. 

It’s remarkable, what trolls can do when they put their mind to it. How far they can stretch their influence, when they are determined to reconquer the world that once belonged to them. They have built cities and towns and villages, in all manner of landscapes and territories. Places where the Pact is more of a myth than a reality and stories and gossip twist everything beyond recognition. 

More than anything, you quietly note that everything is new and young, built by new and young generations that know nothing of the meteors and the life that had been before them. And they, young and naïve, have inherited from you a nebulous future that has refused to reveal itself to Harlow’s powers. You observe and consider but eventually do and say nothing, as Albali guides you through your travels, seemingly at random. Many perigees after you began the journey, Albali and Mandee are hardly children anymore, and their games are less playful and more dangerous. Often, you leave behind you a trail of blood and tears that never quite manages to put blame on the witch’s shoulders. He likes to play tricks and show off his skill, and his reckless abuse of his talents is something you don’t bother to try and admonish him for. Mandee begs and bargains with him, if not out of obligations, out of the selfishness of one who feels others’ suffering as his own and wishes to save himself undue torment. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but he continues doing it without a single sign of remorse or reluctance. 

“Tyrell.” 

You look up from the fire to find the witch giving you a demonic smile, grey eyes nearly filled out with jade. Mandee shifts at your side, expression caught between wary and challenging. You have always found it amusing, the way the boy makes a point to try and prevent any sort of harm from befalling you. It’s rather entertaining, of course, because you know no harm can truly befall you, much less coming from Albali himself. You wonder when Mandee will realize that for all Albali delights in testing your patience he has never once directly attempted to curse you. Even if he noticed, however, you wouldn’t tell him that Albali simply _cannot_ , because that would ruin one of the last genuinely amusing things you have left. You make an inquisitive sound, absently reaching with a stick to poke at the burning logs. 

“I believe I have found a friend of yours,” the witch grins at you, every tooth a crooked fang, “we should go say hello.” 

“Now?” You add an almost put upon undertone to your voice as you arch an eyebrow at him. 

“No time like the present,” Albali laughs obnoxiously, beckoning for you and Mandee to get up. 

You are now trailing closer to the City again, not enough to be recognized, but close enough you can see the signs, like currency and architectural design. You wonder if Albali is using his gifts to contain rumors about him; after all, if his reputation traveled ahead of him, he wouldn’t get to enjoy the looks of horror and surprise when he is done playing with whoever is unfortunate enough to have his attention at the moment. Still, you are closer to Dhraid’s territory than the City’s, and you are uneasy at his use of the word _friend_. Given Albali’s accent, you’ve always found it hard to tell if he’s talking about friend or fiend, and in turn you’ve always wondered why such contradictory words would sound so similar. 

“Very well,” you sigh, after a moment, brushing invisible lint off your clothes before you stand up. 

Mandee echoes your sigh, though without enough finesse to make it not sound whiny, and you both follow Albali out and away from the small campsite by the side of the road, clearly carved out of the rock by troll hands, and towards the forest itself. It is not like Iggy’s forest, grown out of loving, persistent care, but rather a forest grown the natural way, enduring out of its own strength. You have seen forests and even jungles in your travels following your wayward witch, and you can’t help but be impressed with the speed of recovery of the planet as a whole. You wonder, sometimes, if a certain brownblood disaster has anything to do with it, but you refuse to give him undue importance. 

Albali walks cheerfully through the greenery, long limbed and nimble, navigating trunks and pits and roots with the same ease he does everything else. Mandee scampers after him, muttering under his breath. You close up the group, as always, sidestepping most obstacles with ruthless efficiency, refusing to let them irritate you too much. You are, in fact, so absorbed in not paying attention to anything that the roar catches you by surprise. The monstrous thing pounces at you from the heights of the trees, and Albali stops it midair with a casual flick of his hand. 

You stare for perhaps four seconds before you find yourself very close to feeling real anger for the first time in more than a century. 

“Release him,” you say, voice low and measured, and then hiss as Albali laughs at you. 

Frozen mid-air, ragged and filthy and carelessly left to the mercy of the elements but still very much himself, hangs Spyros. His hair is a rotten, gnarled mess, with no ghost of the braids he was once so fond of, and his entire being all but screamed madness and abandon. You close your eyes for a moment, transported back in time to that fateful night the goldbloods attacked the City. Something broke, inside Spyros during that battle, something that made him cease being a troll all together and turned him into something else. He rampaged the battlefield, too fast and too keen to be hit, pummeling everything goldblooded to the ground with merciless glee. Then, after he had crossed the enemy lines and reached the heart of the goldblood’s army, he had wailed with such profound despair to this day you swear both armies stopped and listened to his lament. 

And then he vanished, before more than sixty thousand witnesses. 

He wasn’t dead, of course, because otherwise there would have been pain and the Pact would have known. He was… simply gone. Removed from reality by something no one could quite understand or explain. And now here he is before you, a veritable wreck that makes your bilesack twitch unpleasantly. 

“Release him, Albali,” you intone again, voice harsh. 

You never did like Phylis or Spyros much, but they were the two out of the entire Pact you always respected most. Because they were trolls, simple minded and naïve and stupid like all trolls naturally are, but they shared with each other a bond so deep and so strong it moved something in you, reminded you of yourself and your mistress and the lengths you have gone – and will continue to go – for her sake. For them, and them alone, you felt something almost like sadness, genuine grief for their ultimate fate. It was wrong, for them to be parted in such away. But the world is always wrong, one way or another and there is not much you could have done about it. 

“Just for you,” the jadeblood singsongs, lowering his arm and with it the gargantuan troll to the ground. Then his eyes glow, and Spyros’ howl dies out into a raspy chuckle. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the purpleblood hisses, grim amusement in his tone and yet voice serene as ever. “It is not my time yet.” 

“Spyros, the Reckless,” you say, and from under grime and dirt, two sober, sane eyes stare at you inquisitively. “It has been long.” 

“Not long enough,” he says, sitting on his haunches like he used to, “Tyrell, the Conductor. What are you doing here, old friend? And who comes with you, that can return his mind to someone like me?” 

“I am Albali,” the jadeblood says imprudently, tilting his chin up arrogantly. “The last true witch and the first true jadeblood that shall ever walk upon Alternia. And this is Mandee, my companion. And we’re here, because you have a story to tell and I wish to hear it.” 

“A story?” Spyros laughs, feral and loud, head thrown back. “I have no stories for you, jadeblood witch. I only have my curse: to roam and wait, until I am allowed to die and find my Phylis in the withered plains.” 

“You have been here all this time?” You can’t help but ask, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. 

“Since I lost my mind, yes,” Spyros shrugs, taking a moment to look at his hands, worn and scarred over from countless injuries. All of him is rough and calloused from exposure. “I do not know how I found myself here, but I remember the voice. Ah, yes. The voice. She said I would languish here, waiting for death until my last service was performed.” He sobers up, standing up and stepping closer to you, leaning in to loom over you. The rank stench clinging to him is nearly enough to make your eyes water. “What of the war?” 

“Won, like all those before it,” you reply, standing straight and imperturbable and ignoring the sound of Mandee heaving and retching somewhere to your side. “The City stands still, and the Pact still rules, though I cannot tell for how long yet.” You allow yourself a significant silence. “They would welcome you, if so you chose.” 

“It’s not my place,” Spyros says, and then breaks down cackling again. “It’s not the place for a savage, broken beast. Know this, Tyrell, I have gone mad and your jadeblood witch has given me back my mind, but it will not last. Even now it already begins to wear away, with every thought of her. And all my thoughts are of her, for her, to her. Oh, how could I not, when it’s my very soul she cradled in her arms?” 

“I like you,” Albali said suddenly, pointing at Spyros again, smile stretching dangerously across his face. “I cannot give her back to you, not how you want her. And I cannot take you away, because there’s a reason for you to be here. But I like you.” His eyes glowed jade. “So here’s my boon to you, who knows true loyalty. Your descendants will meet, always together, always two by two, and this bond you share will pass along to them. One day, I promise you, they will come into the world together, and together they will remain, until the day they die. Always in two, generation after generation, until the great undoing. So take heart, Spyros, the Reckless, your story will not end here.” 

There is silence in the small clearing, only the sound of the wind rushing past the trees, rustling the leaves, breaking it. And then Spyros laughs again, thunderously. There’s an edge of madness to the sound, desperate and heartbroken, and not for the first time you feel offended that such a troll would find his end this way. 

“You should leave,” Spyros says after a moment, turning to leave himself. “I will soon not be myself again.” 

** ₪ **

The servant looks at you with unspoken awe for a second longer, before he squirrels away down the corridor, leaving you outside tall, ornate doors. You heave a soft sigh, before you go in. 

“Dhraid.” 

The rooms are spacious and exquisitely furnished with plush rugs and gleaming gold everywhere. Teal, everywhere, as well, often in the same pattern you know so well. You step forward, unimpressed by such luxuries, until you are standing before the large rest slab. Dhraid lays there, without silks or brocades, merely a thin grey tunic hanging onto her skin. She makes no sound as you sit on the edge of the slab, too busy staring intently at her right hand, withered almost to the bone. 

“What manner of monster have you brought to my city, Tyrell?” She says finally, lowering her hands to rest on her lap and looking at you with sharp eyes. “To what disastrous thing have you bound yourself now?” 

Albali had run his mouth, in her presence, and Dhraid, being Dhraid, had not taken his impertinence lightly. Before her court and to Mandee’s horror, she slapped the jadeblood clear across the face. In retaliation, once the sheer surprise had drain out of Albali’s face, he had made her hand wither. Dhraid refused to scream or even whimper in pain, though you have no doubt it had been excruciating. She had just stared down the jadeblood until he vanished into moths and went off to sulk elsewhere, and then dismissed everyone while she herself retired to her own chambers. 

“My death,” you say, smiling wryly at her. “To whom I am bound, until the time comes for it to end.” 

You make a noise of surprise as strong arms reach out and pull you down to her, until your head is resting in her lap. You shift a little, until your spine isn’t twisted in a knot, as she fingers your hair. 

“Why?” 

You hated her, once. Or at the very least, you thought you hated her, once. The time for such things has long since passed and that you have left is this strange camaraderie that is at once too soft and not soft enough. Out of all the creatures and trolls you have ever met in your life, she is perhaps the one you would willingly share your story with. To Dhraid and Dhraid alone, you would gladly reveal the secrets that you guard. 

You would tell her of your prodigious origins, being a troll who shared an egg with a sibling. You would tell her of sharing even a cocoon with her, your mistress and your sister and your everything, who grew by your side and always felt part of yourself. You would tell her of your games and her prophecies, not as straightforward as Harlow’s dreams, but rather twisted riddles that were only understood in hindsight, never as foreshadowing. Dhraid would delight herself in tales of adventure and mischief, when you were young and whole and still capable of _feeling_. 

To Dhraid you would tell the story of the night you died, and then didn’t, because she died for you instead, your most loving mistress, your most gracious witch among witches, who knew and understood everything there was to know and be understood. Dhraid would understand, with your words, more than Harlow ever did with his dreams. Dhraid would see your struggles after you became yourself, your attempts to pass off as just another troll and your steady rise in favor of your queen, and she would take them in the spirit they happened. Because Dhraid is not a fool, the way Harlow is, trying to see you as a victim of your fate. You chose your fate, and everything you’ve done, you’ve done with full knowledge of what you were doing. How could you not? When you have been living more than a hundred sweeps on borrowed time? You are not a witch, but a witch’s whim. To her mercy and her kindness you owe everything you are. She told you to be great, for great things waited for you down the sinuous river of time. You have made yourself the greatest you could be, even as empty and hollow a husk as you are. 

All this and more you would tell her, because Dhraid is perhaps the sole creature in this wretched world that might understand and see you for who you are, but you cannot. Your lips are sewn shut by invisible thread, your mind closed off to any who seek out the truth. 

“Because I must,” you say instead, allowing her touch and her friendship, her fingers tracing along the edge of a horn. 

“I will not see you again, then,” she says, almost pensive, “once you leave.” 

“I sincerely doubt it.” 

She chuckles, her laughter easy despite her injuries. You are filled with a strange, feral sense of pride, even if her strength is not your own. You admire Dhraid, for everything she is and has made herself to become. 

“Then I am glad to have you here, then,” she fingers your hair between her claws. “As I would have been rather cross at you, if you died without saying goodbye.” 

** ₪ **

“I should end you here.” 

You try to hiss, but there’s no air in you to do so, as Mandee holds you up against the wall with a gesture of his hand. His powers have grown over the sweeps, but you have never seen him wield his vision eightfold as ruthlessly as this. His grip on your mind and your body is painful and the gleam in his eyes is mad. You close your eyes, realizing Albali has finally pushed the boy too far. 

“You never stopped it. Him.” Mandee tightens his hold on you, making your ribs burn and your eyes water. “Always talking about property and belonging and destiny. You could have stopped him, Tyrell. He _wanted_ you to stop him. Why do you think he didn’t kill the Orator? He craved discipline and guidance and… and… he’s your _son_ and you let him _do_ this to me!” You gasp for air as he releases you, and you fall to your knees, wheezing. “But what’s done is done. I’m not going to kill _you_ , because that won’t bring her back, but I’m going to punish you. Yes.” He smiles, lips stretched manically. “A suitable punishment for an unfeeling bastard like you. I’m going to make you _care_.” 

You scream, as the empathic lash hits you, emotion forcing its way into you. Emotion is anathema to you, but Mandee doesn’t know it. He leaves you writhing in the ground as he storms away to carry out his vengeance against his master, while you struggle not to give in to emotion. Foolish child, you think to yourself, even as you wrestle with the alien feelings he’s tried to impose on you, this is perhaps the closest anyone has ever gotten to actually killing you in decades. You force yourself to exorcise each and every layer of poison he’s flooded you with, pretending you can’t hear the screaming outside. 

When you finally make it outside, hiding your stumble behind your perfect posture, the City itself is in disarray. You walk down the main road, looking at trolls struggling to contain fires and snarling around for healers. At the center of the main square, where once upon a time, the White Guardian stood, you find the Pact standing around a corpse. Among them, the entirety of the council you so detested, speaking in low, controlled voices. One of them sees you first, pointing at you imperiously. 

“You!” The man, whose name you’ve never bothered to learn, yells at you. “This is all your doing!” 

“It doesn’t matter now,” Harlow says quietly, still staring at the corpse at their feet. “It’s over now.” 

Lying in a puddle of his own blood, Albali stares up at the sky with unblinking eyes. You realize at once what Mandee did, as you see the indent of a sword that passed cleanly through his chest. You twist your lips into the faintest smirk, amused despite yourself at the blueblood’s flair for the dramatic. To kill Albali with his own sword, one he pulled out of nothingness and enchanted so it would only kill those he wanted dead. Yes, that would be a loophole in the magic, allowing Mandee to enact his petty revenge. You look around you, at the panic and the fires and the fear. All of this, for the sake of a troll Mandee had convinced himself he pitied. You warned him, once, that it was not his place to have a matesprit, not while his witch still lived and had need of him. But the blueblood was foolish and easily swayed by kindness, and when Albali took her away, as you knew he would… well, what else could have happened? 

“It is not,” you counter, looking back at the group of trolls who feel decidedly distant to you all of a sudden. 

“Damn right, it’s not over!” A woman from the council snaps, baring her teeth at you. A rustblood, you think, but you don’t care enough to make sure. “That fucking kid took off with an army, the fuck is going to happen now?” 

“He needs an army to fight the war that he’s started,” you say after a moment, “but it is not one that concerns you at all.” 

“Have you taken a look around the City lately, mate?” Ulyses snaps, worn and tired and also inherently guilty, because a blueblood he personally favored has done all this. “Because in case you hadn’t noticed, this kind of concerns us, when you know, our people get brainwashed and abducted to fight someone’s stupid war.” 

“That might be so,” you arch an eyebrow. “But what do you expect to do? Mandee will… ah.” 

Albali’s skin pales considerably, going from gray to white in the span of a few seconds. So white, indeed, it seems to glow. The jadeblood coughs up blood as he begins to stand up, and you take a moment to appreciate the difference between the Pact and the council and the reason why the council will lead this City to ruin one day. The Pact peers down at the witch with vague curiosity, unimpressed by his apparent resurrection or his newly glowing status, because the Pact has seen and done things that defy all logic and this is, strictly speaking, not a particularly impressive display. The council, for their part, scrambles away, staring in horror as the jadeblood pats himself where the sword skewered him, absolutely out of their depth. 

“Albali,” you say, voice carrying a note of disapproval and annoyance, “what have you done now?” 

“I am a witch,” he says, and then he laughs, before he licks the blood off his fingers. “And now I will be a drinker of rainbows, feeding on blood like my Mother’s drones. Rusts and blues and teals and golds and purples and—“ He stops before Alilah, smile falling off his face almost with an audible sound. “But not fuchsias, no. I promise you this, Daughter of the Singer, my sister of sorts. When one of my kind drinks of one of your kind, existence itself will be at the fringe of ending.” He looks around him, expression melting into arrogant disdain. “Where is my pet?” 

“Gone,” Spit snarls at him, violet sparks along his horns, but you think that is more frustration than any real desire to fight the jadeblood. “Taken with him a quarter of the City’s trolls, too.” 

“Ah, I see.” And the witch smiles, and those who see it shiver, all but Alilah, who still stands before him as impassive and irritated as ever. “So then, I suppose I should go bring him back.” 

“You can’t—“ The troll who spoke, another member of the council, gurgles as his voice leaves him. 

“I can, little troll,” Albali purrs, smile widening as the hapless troll claws at his throat, tearing at skin and muscle as he dies. “There is nothing I cannot do.” 

He melts into a thousand colorful butterflies, from rust to violet, covering the entire spectrum of blood colors, and then takes off into the sky, off to find his other half. 

** ₪ **

It is a mistake for the Pact to be here, but you do not argue against it, because it is their own damn fault. 

They allowed the second council to usurp their power and importance. They gave unworthy trolls a voice in the government of the City and its provinces. Now it is no one’s fault but their own, that they have been tasked to retrieve and possibly terminate both Albali and Mandee. After all, they are the Pact, nothing is impossible for them. You take a moment to realize you are no longer including yourself among them, and take a deep breath to quiet down your mind. The aftermath of Mandee’s attack on your mind continues, making it harder to maintain a distance from the world. You are a creature in the world, but not _of_ the world, not any longer. Not for very long, either. 

So here you are, sitting in a circle around the fire, like you used to those nights you crossed the planet in search of Temples and the Great Mother. It feels like eons ago. It looks like it, too. Harlow and Spit sit at each side of Alilah, enjoying her hands on their heads. Linnea sits on her own, holding onto her staff and staring at the fire morosely. Ulyses sits at Iggy’s feet, staring up at the sky. They look worn and old, all but Alilah and her implacable spirit. There are ghosts among you, whispers of voices in the wind. There is no joy or no mirth, no jokes or stories to be shared. You watch them, tired and unused to such grueling walks anymore, and think how lucky you are, that your body cannot tire the way theirs does. You wish you could feel old, though, now that you are irrevocably walking to your death. It would be comforting, you think, to finally feel _done_. 

“The Witch is headed for the desert, where the Scorpion has his nest.” 

Iggy’s voice drags you all out of your thoughts, as the brownblood slowly stands up. He’s a scrawny thing, has always been. Thin and coarse, like the roots of the trees he loves so much. He stands tall before you, for once without his usual slouch, eyes open fully instead of half-mast. 

“Iggy?” Ulyses asks, uncertain, as for the first time since you’ve known him, the brownblood looks fully _aware_ of the world around him. 

His smile is kind. 

“I cannot go any further,” he says, spreading his hands in an apology. Beneath you, the ground begins to shake and rumble. “I am this Era, hatched when it began, set to die as it ends. The Witch and the Scorpion must be stopped, but their curse will last and spread until every last troll in the planet suffers under it.” He looks oddly grave. “It is unnatural, what they will do, but within their rights to do so, to change the laws of life and death. It is their nature to change the song and try to destroy the order of the world.” He points a claw at you, lips parting in a smile. “I know what you are, my friend, I know what you must do. Wish that I could walk with you the last mile towards your goal, but it is not allowed. I am to end as I began, in the eve of the disaster.” His expression softens, as the ground explodes with vines and greenery, all of it looming above him. “I merely wished to say, before I left you… I enjoyed my time with you.” 

Ulyses screams for him with anguish that tears at his throat, as the brownblood is taken by the growing flora and dragged back into it. You know the moment he ends, feeling pain in your brands as they burn anew. At the same time you feel the bracelets raging, however, the plants continue to grow and flourish, spreading all around you. They form a corridor, trees and branches and leaves, tightly wound in a dome that won’t let sunlight through, decorated with flowers all around it. It stretches on, so far you cannot see its end. Linnea looks at you, since Ulyses is crumpled on the ground, hitting it with a fist and bawling for his lost friend, and Harlow and Spit cradle Alilah’s body against theirs, fussing over the backlash of yet another bracelet transferred to her arms. 

You walk past them, into the tunnel. You need not rest or sleep or eat any longer, you can feel it in your very bones: the end is near. It is your duty to walk down this road, because you know the only thing that awaits you at the end of it is death itself. So you set off, one step at the time, languid and unhurried, because you will reach your destination when the time is right. 

“Tyrell.” 

You pause, but do not look back. You do marvel quietly at Alilah’s voice and its penchant to demand attention and obedience without really trying. 

“You need not go with me,” you say, taking another step. “This is not your duty to complete.” 

“Someone should watch,” Linnea says after a moment, “someone should bear witness to it.” 

“And make a story out of it?” You sneer, turning around to glare at her. 

“And remind you someone gives a fuck about you, you fucking sanctimonious _shit_.” Ulyses snarls at you, baring all his teeth. The tears and the pain of his loss, bizarrely enough, only make him look fiercer. 

“I do not—“ 

“So when Dhraid asks,” Spit says quietly, “we’ll have something to say.” 

You bare your teeth at him, snarling and feeling a flare of emotion stronger than you have felt since you died-but-didn’t. You gasp, then, trying to subdue it. To purge it out of your system, before it ruins everything. They are fools. Sentimental, idiotic fools, who understand nothing and deserve nothing. They mistake the strain of keeping yourself whole for agreement to their nonsense. And then Harlow smiles at you, guileless and kind and desperate. Every loss diminishes them as a whole. Every hardship pushes them closer together, until boundaries and lines blur and are lost forever. Time will grind them out to nothing, break their bones and smear away their very souls. And yet they refuse to understand. 

“There is nothing you can do about this,” you insist, hating the twitch of emotion threatening to materialize in your gut. “This is not—“ 

“It is a foolish thing,” the prophet says, stepping forward, “to let a friend die alone.” 

** ₪ **

You can’t tell how long it’s been, since you began walking down the corridor that seems to be Iggy’s last act of good will for all of you. The branches keep the noxious sunlight away, and seem to grow fruit to feed you when you need it. You keep pushing forward, ignoring soft words and gestures and feeling each and every one of them tearing down at your defenses. You cannot give in yet, but the fools who try to comfort you do not understand they are making this all the more difficult than it has any right being. You have reached the point you wish you could tell them what they’re doing to you, that their kindness is the greatest cruelty they can commit against you. You were meant to be an empty vessel all your life, and when your mistress exchanged her life for your own, she sealed your fate with hers. Your body is but a puppet to carry out your designs, as you go on living without living, existing solely for the last moment when it will all end. But the more they follow you, the more they laugh and reminisce and wistfully recount what they have done, the more they fill up the emptiness inside you. 

When you finally reach the end of the tunnel and it opens up into a cliff, you are dangerously close to breaking point. 

The cliff drops down abruptly, sinking into the sand as the scorching desert spreads as far as the eye can see, melting into the sky in the horizon. And in the distance, below the glare of the full green moon, two armies square off. Thousands upon thousands of trolls clash like the waves of the sea, weapons drawn and blood splattering everywhere. Only one half of the conflict is still alive, however. Even from where you stand, you can see the shuffling of corpses animated by malicious will, forcing them to go on, no matter what. You can see Albali and Mandy overseeing the slaughter from their respective corners of the battlefield, standing atop their lusii, glowing like stars as they continue their feud, uncaring of who gets caught in the middle of it. 

“…how the fuck are we gonna stop _that_?” 

You smile, absently patting Ulyses shoulder. 

“You will not.” You step forward, to the very edge of the cliff. “This was foretold by the Seer of Doom, more than a hundred sweeps ago. That the Thief of Mind, last but not least of all witches, would wreak havoc across the land and fall prey to his own madness. This is why I am here. Not your Pact or your meteors or your City. _This_.” 

You close your eyes, feeling yourself return to who you once were, fulfilling your mistress last curse. Your body gives in, falling to its knees as a century’s worth of joy and sorrow and love and hate and pity and hope return to you, breaking the seal in your soul, where you hid her away all this time. She, who saw Doom and used Doom to put an end to everything, put herself in your hands to carry out her last will. You feel hands on you, worried hands, friendly hands. You feel yourself cry as you raise out of your worn out shell, nothing left but mind and will and light. You look down, to see your body crack and crumble into dust, and then you are not you, but Her, taken back to whom you belong. 

The Thief rises from His husk as well, reducing Albali and Mandee to dust and their warring armies to a riot of slaughter and gore. The Seer chases after him, spreading the wings of Her godhood, seeking to deliver ruin and Doom and end this for once and for all. And all across the universe, in the sky and the ocean and the land, the cry of gods-turned-witches-turned-gods again rises up to see the quarrel between Mind and Doom. They, once lost and worn, made the world and everything in it and now come back to pass their last judgment upon it and themselves. 

The smallest speck of you that remains still, within the whirl of light and sound and power, catches sight of the trolls huddled atop a cliff, bearing witness to the last quarrel of the gods. They are small and insignificant, taking shelter behind Alilah in the shadow of her arrogance. The smallest speck of you is also part of the Seer of Doom, and while most of what you are now is busy chasing after the Thief of Mind and joining the chorus of divine wrath, you can still _See_. 

You see a different Thief, clad in gold and violence, leading the charge against impossible odds. You see a Thief, forever asleep in the moon, waiting patiently for when her time comes. You see the Thief-that-is-no-longer-a-Thief grow in the depths, servant and child to the same monster you and your kind bargained with in the dawn of time. You see her come and go, guiding wave upon wave of doom and despair and rage in her wake, forever blind to the suffering trailing after her. You see her endure where no one else could, slowly growing old and mad, but never able to stop. You are Doom, in spirit and soul and power, but she is Life. Every step she takes, she steals from those around them, every minute she grows older someone else dies sooner. 

You See her, for what she is, with a clarity you never had before, but then the Thief is throwing his last curse, a ball of green light slamming into the desert and then spreading across the land, far and wide, until it touches every last troll that lives and every troll that will ever live. 

“I curse you, like I cursed myself, my blood will birth children who look after children, only to see them die. And at the time of greatest need, in the eve of your greatest despair, the traitor will stand at your right and smile in your face as you die. Let no bond of trust last, let no lesson be learned, let friend and fiend be one and the same and let your Minds rot and suffer, haunted and out of control. I _hate_ you, I hate what we made and why we made it and how it was made, I—“ 

Once upon a time, Forty Eight Children set out to play a Game. Some died and some didn’t, but in the end they won and rose to godhood as they made the land anew. 

Once upon a time, Forty Eight Ghosts gathered again, riding the line between witches and gods, to reclaim their prodigal and leave behind the land, for once and for all. 

The Thief shrieks as he’s torn away by his brethren and the Seer sighs in relief, as it has all come to an end. They rise up and up, away from the grey planet they’d made with so much enthusiasm, now tainted and marked by the one who stands at the edge of time. You reach out into the stars, towards the furthest corners and feel peace as you are finally allowed to rest. Distantly, you hear the screams as you sever your last link with the world and pass on the yoke of a Pact that should have never been yours in the first place. 

Then it is all over, at long last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, mythology! Connections with SGRUB/SBURB! Foreshadowing! _Yay, never having to write Tyrell ever again!_
> 
> Three chapters left, five trolls left, make your bets, people. C'mon. Who's gonna kick the bucket next?
> 
> As always, feedback is always greatly appreciated.


	12. Cobalt ৳ Survivor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dreaming Ends.

** Cobalt ৳ Survivor **

The night Harlow dies, the whole world seems to stand still and mourn his passing. 

You wake up in a tangled mess of sheets and covers, staring at the ceiling as you feel yourself flooded with an eerie sense of peace. It pulses in your arm, underneath the brand that marks you as a member of the Pact, and spreads across your skin and under it, tracing little swirls and twists all across your body. It doesn’t hurt, though. Not in any way you could easily recognize, at least. It is merely warmth and comfort, enveloping you in a phantom hug and then slowly drifting away. Something inside you aches at the loss, and you feel like a child again, seeking out refuge in your mother’s lap. The loss stings deep, like someone cut off part of you with a knife, but rubbed herbs on the wound and tied the limb tight so it would be numb, and the pain only settles in long after the injury is halfway done healing. 

The first sob wrecks through you and catches you almost by surprise, and your mind finds itself turning to the prophet. You like Harlow. You like Harlow _a lot_. Best brother you never had, really, always willing to put up with your stupidity, always offering to help you through any mess of your own doing. For him and through him, you came to claim the rest of the Pact as your siblings, sisters and brothers after you lost the ones you hatched to. You think of the days you’re too antsy to sleep right and find yourself sitting with a drink in the brightness of noon, and there would be Harlow, teasing and getting himself piss drunk for the sake of not letting you drink alone. You think of a kind gesture or wise word, always precisely when you needed it the most. He tried to explain, once, that most of those he did because he was supposed to, but you never cared, because to you what mattered is that he _did_. You’ve met all sorts of trolls, and things that are not quite trolls, but you’ve never met anyone who came closer to being a true hero of legend, like Harlow the Dreamer. Eons from now, his name must be remembered, you’ll make certain, and hailed as the savior of trollkind. The prophet who rallied all to his side, defeating impossible odds. 

And now he’s dead. 

You know it in your very soul, beyond the simple fact the bracelet in your arm clamors it. He’s _gone_. Like Iggy and Zillah and Phylis and Tyrell are. He’s ended. You close your eyes tightly, trying to stifle the tears welling up in them, but the sadness that consumes you refuses to back down. It’s such a strangely sweet despair, loss and warmth and hope all tightly wound together in the pit of your gut. 

You hear the shriek then. Loud, monstrous, and echoing something that is very much not troll. It is Alilah’s voice, and you’re glad you’ve never heard her raise her voice before. Then you hear Alston’s cry, but it’s not for Harlow he calls, you think. It’s a short, loud screech. Utterly incomprehensible, and yet you know for certain it’s begging for something. You pause only long enough to grab a whip, before you’re hurrying along the corridor, ignoring the still pale light outside. You hear it again, even less words now, more of a wounded sound. You’ve never heard Alston the Spiteful sound anything like that, and it scares you to the marrow of your bones. So you speed up the pace and nearly run into Linnea when you turn a wide corner. 

“Harlow—“ 

“Not now,” you say, and hold her hand so you can drag her along with you, chasing after the increasingly distressed sounds, even if she’s clearly heading for the prophet’s quarters. “No one can help Harlow the Dreamer, but we have siblings who still live.” 

Linnea wrenches her arm free of your grip and overcomes your stride with ease. By every rotten god that has ever been or will ever be, you _hate_ being short. You scoff to yourself and make yourself keep up with her, following the sounds beyond the stairs at the back, connecting the building with the cove down below. You reach the sand, scorching hot on your bare feet, just in time to see the last splashes of what you can only assume are Alilah and Alston. 

There’s a long silence then, as everything goes silent. The bracelet, the cries, the grief. Even the gentle warmth that woke you up. All is quiet. All is _ended_. 

“They’re gone,” Linnea whispers, shaking like a leaf, and only then you realize her eyes are as damp as your own. “Ulyses, they’re—“ 

“They’ll be back,” you interrupt again, not letting her make the statement sink in deeper in your gut than it already has. 

“They’ll—“ 

“They’ll be _back_ ,” you say, slow and certain, reaching for her hand again and holding on even when she tries to shake you off. You tighten your grip and allow yourself to drop your customary cheer entirely. It is not the time for jesting. It will not be time for jesting for a very long while now. It’s nearly dusk and yet the sun still burns and makes your skin prickle, but you have words that need saying. _Now_. “They’re seafolk. They lost a quadrantmate today, and, as you and I both know—“ You don’t really feel the slap. It doesn’t even sting. You take a deep breath. “As you and I both know, it is a great loss and they have a right to mourn.” 

“They mourn where we cannot follow,” she hisses at you, teeth bared, and for the first time in your life, you can say you’ve seen Linnea the Scholar look awake, alert and _scared_. “Our _siblings_ are gone.” 

You would say something about sleeping dragons, but it feels like bad taste, even after all these sweeps. She is your sister, after all. Not in blood, but in bond; the only bond that’ll ever matter to you for the rest of your life. You look up at her, tugging at her hands sharply, and you swear to all that is holy that you have never given any other troll a more serious look than this. 

“Our siblings,” you say, slow and measured, “have gone to mourn the greatest, bravest troll that has ever or shall ever walk the world. We are siblings, you and I. Just like them and we are. We are siblings, because we made the walk together, didn’t we? We survived the Great Catastrophe. We found the Great Mother. We made a Pact with the Guardian himself. We’ve fought wars, you and I. We’ve killed dragons, for fuck’s sake.” She tries to pull away at that, and you still feel like shit for saying it, but you can’t take it back now. You tug her hard again. “The goldbloods revolted, and what did we do? We crushed them like ants, because the shitblood _whores_ dared to insult our sister. We are bluebloods, you and I—“ 

“I am—“ 

“A fucking blueblood, for all the goddamn castes ever did us good. You’re from the north, I’m from the south and maybe our blood is a few hues different, what does it matter? _We’re bluebloods_. We talk the same, we eat the same, we fuck the same and we fucking _shit_ the same. You value family as much as I do. _We are family_.” You snarl at her, pleased when she snarls back. “You are my sister and I am your brother. Our siblings have gone to mourn their loss, much like the rest of the land will, once they hear of it, and until they come back, you and I will do our sibling duty and hold the City and its territories safe and sound. Do you understand me?” You swallow hard, certain there’ll be blisters on your feet by the end of this. “Do you understand me, sister, Linnea the Scholar?” 

She wrenches herself free of your grip at last, standing tall, nearly as tall as two of you. 

“I understand,” she says, and you add the curl of her lip to the list of things you mourn. 

She went half mad, the night Zillah died. And then she went the other half, while she festered in silence, poisoned by her own grief. 

“I cannot hold the City on my own.” You let out a slow, tense breath. “I am beloved in the streets, endeared to every guild, called master by every troll holding a sword and claiming themselves to be a soldier. But the council—“ 

“Don’t call them that,” she snarls, and starts to pace, and you think perhaps that is a good thing. That she is moving, that she’s not paralyzed like you are. You could always talk even when your muscles locked in place and refused to let you move, at least. “They dishonor a title they are not worthy of having. Nest of vipers, it’s all they are.” 

“Be as it may, the false council rules the City more and more with each sweep. They would not dare raise a hand, with Harlow and Alilah and Alston here, but without them—“ 

“They will be back,” she says, mockingly, and if she weren’t your sister, whom you love more dearly than blood itself, you would uncoil your whip against her. 

“I would like to be _alive_ when they come back,” you snap sarcastically. 

“They would not—“ 

“They’re a nest of vipers, you said so yourself.” You shake your head. “They hate us, you know. You and me, and our siblings.” 

“They’re _scared_ of us,” she snorts, “not quite the same thing at all.” 

“When we brought the Guardian of the Green Moon to heel, yes. When we brought the Great Mother and her drone army from the wasteland and she gave them children, yes. But _then_ we started to die. They _know_ we can die, as easily as any other troll.” You dodge her claws, deflecting the move to the best of your ability. You were always built for speed, but she is stronger than you. She’s been made stronger by bitterness and you would not like to find any piece of yourself caught in her claws, these days. “Listen to me, Linnea. We built this City with our own hands and it belongs to no one more than us. But between the disparity in the children and how many of the Old Walk are dead now, we’re losing what little grip we have on what’s rightfully ours.” You reach for her hands, lacing your fingers with hers now. “I need you to stand by my side and _be_ my sister. I need you outside your library and away from your scrolls.” 

“Away from my grief, you mean,” this time, she’s the one who tightens the grip, hard enough you can feel bones straining under the skin. “Away from my mourning, even as you tell me that our _siblings_ should be allowed to mourn.” 

“If we stand divided, they will make short work of us, and no one will mourn.” You grind your teeth. “In a hundred sweeps, no one will remember who we were or what we did, they will make sure of it. So not only will we die, alone and unmourned, we’ll be left lost and forgotten.” 

You make yourself not flinch, when her hands slide on your face, pressing at your cheeks as she leans in, until you’re forehead to forehead. 

“Do you think death scares me?” There’s something very dangerous and very mad in her voice, and her eyes glimmer with it. “Do you think I’m afraid of anything they can do to me?” 

You know _you_ are. The council is ruthless, because the council has nothing binding it together beyond power. They serve no higher purpose, nor they love the trolls they lord over. They fight and backstab and betray each other all the time, looking out for themselves and nothing else. The only thing keeping you from falling to your knees, crying like a wiggler over Harlow’s death, is the certainty that the city will riot if you don’t _do_ something. You’re a warrior, at heart. A soldier fighting a war, that’s all you’ve ever been. So maybe the war was a bit less like a war between two armies in a battlefield and more like a prolonged struggle to survive, you’re still a soldier. You are painfully aware you are the least fit to rule in any sense, and that’s mainly the reason why you’re trying to snap Linnea to her senses and have her aid your cause, instead of trying to pull some ridiculous stunt like crowning yourself king. 

You could do it. Very easily, in fact, when it’s all too true that you are and have always been the most beloved member of the Pact, as far as common folk go. They fear Alilah and scorn Alston and worship—worshipped Harlow, but you? You fought with them and hunted with them and drank with them and fucked with them. They _like_ you. If you chose a banner and declared yourself king, they would fall over themselves to accept you. They would fight amongst themselves for a chance to kill the false council for you, because the loyalty they have for you cannot be bought with coins. 

But then you would be king, and you know you would be a _terrible_ king. You would make mistake after mistake, and their love for you would wither with each night. They would grow restless and discontent and before you knew it, another fool beloved of the people would raise his own banner against you and have them fighting for a chance to kill you. You will not set precedent for a vicious cycle that will only end up hurting them more. You love them too much, from the smallest to the largest, the youngest to the oldest. 

You love your people too much to subject them to the whims of a moron like yourself. 

No. The false council must remain, but it must be purged and cleansed and made anew in the spirit of the old one. You need trolls who love trolls, but you don’t have time to find them now. You need Linnea to close ranks with you and help you navigate the opportunists and the snakes in your midst, while you find suitable replacements for them. 

“Of course you’re not,” you offer her a thin, shaky smile. “But you’re a deranged bitch who’s afraid of _nothing_.” You ignore the sting of her claws digging slowly into your skin. “I need you, sister. I need you to be brave in the face of things I’m scared of. I need you to watch my back while I watch yours.” 

“Until they’re back,” she sneers, eyes gleaming. 

“Until they’re back,” you agree, staring straight into her eyes and quietly wishing you could die. “And then you can do whatever you like. You can kill me, if it pleases you then. But don’t—“ 

“Shhh,” she says, soft, too soft to be pale, and with infinite tenderness presses her lips to your forehead. “Shoosh, now, Ulyses the Conqueror. My moirail was made dragon meal. My matesprit burned when the meteors came. I’ve never been hateful enough, to have a kismesis to call my own. I don’t have siblings, little blueblood. I am no one’s sister.” You start wondering if she’s going to break your neck, when she releases you. “But I am a mother. I’m not the Great Mother, no. But I am a mother by my own right, and all my children are dead. All that I’ve ever held dear to me is dead and their blood was spent building this City.” She steps back and turns back towards the stairs, back straight, braid trailing noiselessly behind her. She looks _huge_. “I will hold the fort against the false council, Ulyses the Conqueror, because the City is mine and all I have left.” She stops, just long enough to look at you over her shoulder. “And I swear on my children’s blood, if you call me sister again, I will slit your throat and make dice with your bones, _brother_.” 

You stand there a moment, watching her climb the steps slowly, until she vanishes into the doorway atop the cliff. You want to fall to your knees and scream and cry and hate the world. You shove it all into the back of your head instead, and hurry back inside. You have to inform the City of Harlow’s death before any other imprudent moron does, and then you must make preparations for the rites. 

Trolls do not mourn their dead. Trolls do not cling onto the past and make monuments to what’s already gone. But you are a blueblood and you believe in what lies beyond the veil, and out of all the trolls in the world, all those who have lived and will ever live, there is not one of them that deserves to be honored more than Harlow. No matter what happens, you’ll preserve his memory. And in a hundred, a thousand sweeps, trolls will still know they owe it all to the Dreamer of Lime Island. 

That, you vow. 

** ৳ **

“The people—“ 

“ _Our_ people,” the chairman of the council interrupts you, sneering at you with perfectly even teeth that have never felt a solid punch in them, “my Lord. They’re _our_ people.” 

“Our people,” you concede, for you know the dance by now, and better than to argue with a mule, “are starving.” 

“That is melodramatic nonsense by the low ones,” a tealblood, whose name you never bothered to learn considering you put a price on her head the moment she was assigned to the council, snorts dismissively, “there is plenty of grain and meat—“ 

“For those who’ll buy it,” you snap, fangs bared. “Oh, wait, but those who have the grain and the meat are _also_ the ones who have all the coins to buy it with. Bit of a predicament for everyone else, don’t you think?” 

“Well, that’s not—“ 

Everyone jumps when the ax embeds itself on the table. You didn’t even _see_ Linnea move. Evidently, given the terrified faces in the trolls sitting at the council table, neither did they. You have to admit, that’s one of the scant few advantages of the new council block. The table is rectangular now, and there are ranks among the council, while the old Pact sat in a circle, all members input equal and all sharing the same standing with one another. It’s a lot harder to threaten someone when there’s a wide circular table made of solid rock between you, but a puny wooden one like this? Linnea knows how to work with what she has. 

“It’s not our problem? Is that what you were going to say?” Linnea purrs at the tealblood bitch, smiling at her with far too many fangs. “You swore an oath, little girl, you should do well to remember.” 

“I’m not—“ The woman’s voice dies when Linnea takes the axe and uses the edge to tip her head up. 

“I ran with your parents, whoever poor fuckers they were, long before you were even a distant dream in the gods’ mind, little girl. So yes, you _are_ a little girl and I _will_ call you it. Though perhaps you prefer oathbreaking bitch instead?” Linnea steps back, swinging the ax with ease. It’s not as big or as wide as Zillah’s, but it’s definitely one of hers, going by craftsmanship. You choose not to think about it, and instead sit back, as the indigoblood turns to address the rest of the council. “You swore oaths of service, not to yourselves, not to me, but to the City and its people. The people are starving, yet you have grain and meat. It doesn’t take a genius to decide what to do. You will open your stores to anyone who wants them, whether they pay you or not, and save up only what needs be for standing reserves.” 

“You can’t—“ 

“But—“ 

“You will do as I say,” Linnea snarls at them, looming imperiously, “because I’ll cut an inch off your horns for every troll that dies of starvation. Lucky for you, you lot seem to have been blessed with _long_ horns.” 

“Well,” you say after a moment, the silence thick and uncomfortable. “I do believe that would be all for today, unless the council has anything else to discuss?” They shake their heads, sneering in disgust. “Good! Then let us go our ways and make sure no lives…” You give the tealblood a particularly charming smile. “Or _horns_ are lost tonight.” 

Linnea doesn’t stay behind, after the council pretends not to hurry to carry out her orders. It’s for the best, probably, that she doesn’t. She’s grown cold and solemn, waiting. But she’s held true, and that is all you dare ask of her. The council has gone through many members, lost in backstabbings and betrayals and gambles, but it’s still weak, corrupted. You refuse to let their poison dig into you, though. You refuse to fall into bitterness the same way Linnea has. You persist, fighting one night at the time, in this unfair war without a battlefield. You tend to your soldiers and the common folk, trying to find a way around the politics the rich dance to subjugate the poor. 

You stand by your seat, in a room that never held the _real_ Council, and remind yourself that so long as your sign is carved on stone, no troll may ever deny your claim to the City. 

** ৳ **

In the beginning, you devised the army to protect the City from the survivors of the Great Catastrophe, the jealous fools who refused to join your midst and instead tried stupidly to breech your walls. Bit by bit, however, the survivors died and new trolls took their place. Trolls who know nothing of the old ways and the old nations, who wage their wars against your walls out of puerile greed. The goldblood rebellion marked the last time the City faced a legitimate threat that it didn’t foster on its own. When the shitbloods traitors raised their banners and marched towards your fields, they spelled the death of the old ways. After they were gone – and you made sure they were gone, burnt to the ground and slaughtered until the grass glistened gold for almost a full perigee – no other armies raised to challenge the sovereignty of the City and its lands. There was no one left to do it. The children raised inside the City walls grow up hearing broken, mismatched stories of fantastical Empires and nations where trolls gathered based on the color of their blood and of great wars and old rivalries that don’t make sense to them anymore. It has been more than fifty sweeps since the Pact was made, and most of the trolls that witnessed the Guardian’s visions and his prophecy of Blood, Time and Life have long since died. It has been more than a century, since the Great Catastrophe pushed trollkind to the brink of extinction and the old ways still had some value. Those who still remember grow fewer every night, and those who inherited their legacy have already started to forget who they owe it all to. 

In the beginning, the army was a necessity to preserve the heretical city of the mixed bloods from the wrath of the scorned, surviving purists who would chose death rather than forget their old wars. But there is no such thing as blood nations anymore. There are no more kings or queens, and like a spring, the City pours out its children out into the world, sweep after sweep. They go on, after they’ve gone through the adult molt at ten, and take what little they’ve learned with them, to help them build a life of their own outside a City that simply cannot hold them anymore. Some of them join other towns and villages sprawled out around the City. Some of them go on to found their own settlements, further than any others have gone before. The planet stretches out like a yawning promise to those who, in their ignorance, believe they are setting out to discover something new. Some come back, sword in hand, to try and demand heirlooms from the City that saw them grow. A whole army to fight bandits and road robbers seems a waste to you, but you’ve learned to worship the god of Needs Must. 

It is, really, the last true god trollkind will ever worship, you reckon. 

But it doesn’t really matter why, or how. The fact is, the City has an army, and you are the one who started most of it, with some input by Tyrell. It almost doesn’t hurt, really, to think of your brother consumed by light and devoured by that… that _Thing_ that took him away. It’s been sweeps now. You can think of him and his sneers and his callous words and his witch-child with the wicked smile, and you don’t find yourself yearning anymore. Time is the balm to heal all wounds, you suppose, and as you grow older and older, you find your scars fading while you focus on more pressing things. There’s always more pressing things to concern yourself with, anyway, and you’ve mastered the art of procrastinating your own emotions for the sake of pulling your weight and try to keep things stable until your siblings return. 

Because they will return, of that you are certain. 

Any night now, they will walk back home and make things right. Alston will demolish the false council and show them what their corrupt politics are worth, in the face of his power. And Alilah will command the people again, gathering their devotion like a child gathers flowers, effortlessly making them all fall in line and live according the old ideals again. Any night now, you tell yourself, as the nights have turned into weeks, which turned into perigees, which turned into sweeps. Any night now, you whisper to yourself, whenever you witness cruelty and pettiness and selfishness and greed. Any night now, you repeat like a sacred mantra, shouldering the anger and the grief of those who corruption hurts the most. 

Any night now. 

So you gather your wits about you, and walk among strict, precise lines of trolls who’ve learned discipline and courage under your care, who became better with each bite of your whips and who obey with blind trust every order you can think of. You feel a powerful sense of belonging, standing among your soldiers, teaching them all you can, but it’s still a pale echo compared to the memories of a round table and the squabble of a family, united and whole. 

You stand back and watch the tired troops head back to their barracks with a wry smile, keeping your thoughts to yourself. In an hour or two, you’ll find most of them at the mess hall and they’ll invite you to join them as if you hadn’t spent most of the day devising ways to make them miserable. They will drink and eat and laugh, and you’ll sit right in the middle of it and not let them see how desperately hungry for their companionship you really are. 

Just one more night. 

** ৳ **

Bloodied mud clings to the soles of your shoes, a blackened goop that stenches of death and misery as you walk down the main road of the city. You walk blindly, seeing without really seeing, as you pass by wounded trolls huddled against walls and petty thieves stealing what they can of the corpses strewn all over the place. 

A long, long time ago, you fell to your knees in a burnt wasteland of a battlefield, screaming out loud as the world ended, and a shrill voice echoed the same scream inside your skull. It took you sweeps and sweeps of fights and murder and survival, to finally sate that voice and make it fall silent. Tonight, as you walk knee-deep through despair and resentment, you can hear it again, warbling notes at first that build up into the deafening screech you will never forget. It grows stronger as you find eyes following your every step, narrowed in suspicion or widened in betrayal. For as long as the city walls had stood like a mother’s embrace, shielding the city from the outside, the streets had never known bloodshed like this. The walls still stand, unbreached, but now they seem to you like the confines of a cage. Six thousand dead, just like that. It’s such a monstrous number, even when it’s just a fraction of the population. You remember when six thousand was the estimate total of the entire planet. Six thousand trolls, children and adults alike, slaughtered senselessly because you couldn’t control your troops fast enough. Six thousand lives, thrown away like nothing. 

Your feet take you to the plaza without actual input from your head, and the screeching intensifies in the back of your mind, as you watch a snake lusus desperately prodding at a small body with its snout. It stops to hiss at it, every now and then, coiling its considerable length around the body to shield it from others. You know the boy won’t wake, though, no matter how much his lusus begs and hisses for him, because his head has been torn off with such violence that bits of his spine are missing. You force yourself to look away, just as you force yourself not to throw up. You’re no stranger to carnage. You’re no stranger to sending a troll across the great divide and join his ancestors in the fields of gold and ruin. But you’ve always fought because you had to, because it was kill or be killed. You never led your troops against innocents. You never allowed anyone to raise a hand against someone who couldn’t defend themselves. 

They call you the Conqueror, in honor of the ancestor whose death was closest to your hatching day, a man of unrivalled military prowess who conquered no less than six cities and was, in turn, named after the ancestor whose spirit he inherited. The greatest thing you ever conquered was yourself, the night the meteors fell and you decided to die. And when the world refused to indulge you, you stood up in defiance and told yourself you would meet death face to face one day. 

You come to a stop in the center of the plaza, standing on the faded mosaic of your sign, where you stood decades ago, and faced death face to face, dressed in white and green. Now the city is death’s hall, and you’re once more turned away from the banquet at the end of the line. You don’t laugh, if only because you’re still aware you’re being watched, and they wouldn’t understand that sometimes a general reaches a point where he laughs, because otherwise he might cry in front of his men. You smile, though, a faint ghost tugging at your lips, as you tilt your head back and stare at the sky and the green moon, full and ominous. 

“The guts riot,” Linnea says, coming to stand behind you, an eternity and a half later. “That’s what they’re calling it now.” 

“Why?” You ask, although you don’t want to know, because there is no possible way knowing won’t make the screeching worse. 

“Because that’s what started it all,” she says, voice hard and terrifying in the quietness of its fury, “as far as they can tell. A fight over guts in the slaughterhouse district.” 

“What the fuck are we doing?” You snarl, as quietly as you can, and realize belatedly that your claws have embedded themselves into the fleshy part of your hands. “Linnea—“ 

“I’ll be leaving,” she interrupts, reaching a hand to pry your claws off your flesh with enough tenderness to make you afraid. “For a few perigees, at the most. I will be back.” 

“Where are you going?” You hold onto her hands tightly, looking up at her eyes with all the desperation you actually feel. “What am I supposed to do?” 

“I will take my books where they are safe,” she says, smiling kindly, and reaching a hand to brush hair off your brow in a gesture most would take for pale. But you know better, and you recognize the threat as what it is. “I will preserve the knowledge the false council wants to control. But I will be back, oh brother of mine. _I will be back_.” She lets go of you as she steps back, suddenly tall and imposing like a mountain. “You will look after those who need you, while I’m gone.” 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, as the prospect of solitude looms above your head and promises to chorus the screech between your ears. “I can’t—“ 

“You will,” Linnea turns to leave, “because you must.” 

You watch her go, trying to burn every detail of her into your mind, lest you never see her again. 

** ৳ **

When war erupts in the North, your thoughts go to Dhraid immediately. Commerce routes collapse almost at once, and with them the precarious balance in the economy. The city is too big to sustain itself anymore, and without the extra input from the territories in the North, you face famine and civil unrest. Linnea has abandoned all pretense of dealing with the council anymore, focusing all her attention on trying to keep the children from starving. Waves upon waves of rusts and browns, yellows and limes, that keep coming every season without pause, no matter what happens in the world. More and more mouths to feed, while the city itself languishes in unrest and discord. 

News from the North are disjointed and senseless. One night they assure you Dhraid’s city has fallen, and the next they clamor for her victory above it all. Linnea has been quiet and stern, ever since she returned from her self-imposed exile, refusing to tell you where she went or to whom she entrusted her library. She takes in the children no guild will want, and teaches her ways to survive, while you fight a losing battle against a council that clearly doesn’t care about you or your opinions in the least. They’re all children of the city, accustomed to politics but not to war. They see little point in trying to send troops to the North and help the situation there, when they can barely keep up with the needs of the city itself. They’re undisciplined and greedy, looking out for their own interests above all else, mere children playing at being adults. But they control what remains of the trade, and their fortunes keep the city thriving, night after night. 

The third season after the start of the war and the sudden shortage of trade, Linnea attends a meeting with the council for the first time in perigees, and announces a new cult has appeared in the city. She stands still and proud, as the reckless council laughs at her warnings, and glares them into submission before walking away. She moves out of the House of the Ten after that, and you’re left alone to walk the great corridors and stare at the crumbling cravings on the walls. 

The six season after the start of the war, the council wishes they had heed the warnings of the Scholar, as fanatics begin immolating themselves in ritual fires all over the city. Your soldiers whisper snidely about them, as they target small hives first, in the outskirts of lesser districts. Try as you might, however, you can’t find anyone who can tell you what they want or who they follow, beyond their disjointed chants for death and the inevitability of destruction. 

As the war nears its first sweep of uninterrupted chaos, you find yourself giving the order to hunt down anyone suspecting of belonging to the cult, jaw set and eyes hard. You’re not beloved of the people any longer, as things get worse and worse and you fail to come up with a solution for it. Civilians look at you with contempt and your own troops shift nervously when they think you’re not looking. You’re a relic of a fantastical past that has failed to lived up to their expectations. A living legend that cannot compare to the stories they still whisper in dark corners. 

As the army marches into the streets, you can’t help but feel you’ve aimed the sword at your own gut. 

** ৳ **

You leave without warning, covered in a thick, white cloak as you run over rooftops and use your whips to vault across the streets. The newest council is made of cowards who quake at the prospect of a war, considering the North just barely managed to shake off one. They’re pampered children hatched in peaceful times, who know nothing of what it means to fight for what you have. Half of them, you’re sure, have never killed anyone in their lives. But they’re all too willing to have you do the killing for them. 

They ordered you to send your troops into the streets and kill anyone who spreads those rumors about the Empress from beyond the undead’s desert, like you’re little more than a tool for them to use. 

You haven’t talked to Linnea in sweeps, but you’re pretty sure she’d agree that you’re doing the right thing. 

If the council won’t take the word of merchants, they will damn well take _yours_. 

When you cross the outer wall, avoiding the patrols with the ease of having set them up in the first place, you are assaulted by the memory of Phylis and Spyros running with you down the fields, as you charged against an invading army. The old battlefields are now slums and semi organized districts, but you can still see the ghost of past battles in the hills and plains surrounding the city. You keep to the rooftops, leaping fearlessly from one to the next, and trying not to cry as Harlow’s words echo in your mind, nearly loud enough to overcome the screeching. 

No matter what, you have to keep trying. Even if no one else is. _Because_ no one else is. 

You don’t know what makes this run so strenuous, your age or the loneliness, but you make your way into Iggy’s forest eventually, refusing to lose a step when you remember the brownblood and his enigmatic smile. Perhaps it’s just the heat of the day, that takes your breath away, but you think there must be something more. How many decades ago was it that you took this route, heading over to the desert that still dominates a good chunk of the central landmass of the continent? So long ago, when your family was still whole and none of you knew what waited for you over the sweeps. When Phylis rode Spyros’ shoulder and invited you along their ridiculous hunts. When Zillah did as Linnea asked, grudgingly and sulkily, and Linnea still remembered how to smile. When Dhraid and Tyrell danced to the endless tune of their arguments, grim satisfaction making them look as fearsome as they truly were. When Harlow was the center of the world without knowing it, and Alilah and Spit walked at his side and rearranged the world to please him. When Iggy taught you to see the life even in the most barren wasteland and to bow your head before the thick trunks of trees older than the world. 

And then you took this route again, later, much later, chasing after Tyrell’s child and nursing gaping holes within your ranks. Now those holes have widened enough they seem about to swallow you hole, and you keep running because there’s no one left to go on if you stop. 

You run and run, and for the first time hear your bones creak and feel your muscles ache, and you realize you’ve grown old without meaning to. 

If only, you think, you’d also grown wiser as you did. 

** ৳ **

You don’t see her, this self-proclaimed Empress you heard so many rumors about, but you see her army and what it leaves behind. 

And that’s enough. 

** ৳ **

You stand before the council, tired and worn, and use your words as best you can to explain the threat looming across the desert and steadily circling towards your land. You urge them to prepare and send word to the North, to rally the South and gather a unified front to stop the incoming invasion. You talk and talk, until you run out of breath and words, hoping against all hope to have gotten through the trolls sitting before you like a wall. 

And when they bring out the chains and drag you away, branding you a traitor for trying to save their lives, you laugh because you’re not Harlow, will never be Harlow, and you shouldn’t have trusted your voice to reach them like his would. You almost expect Linnea to be waiting for you in the depths of the dungeon, but it’s only darkness there, to keep you company. Linnea is too smart to be caught like this, too strong to let herself be made a martyr. You wonder if she’s even in the city still, or if she took your absence like a sign that she was free from the ridiculous pact you made. 

It’s all so surreal to you, the way they look at you. They come to jeer at the bars of your cell and ask you to repent and admit you made it all up to try and wrestle power from them. They’re so certain power is the only thing that matters, so drunk in their own delusions of grandeur, that they can’t even begin to grasp the idea that you don’t really have anything to gain from risking your life for them. You’re tempted to do things their way, though, if nothing else because they tell you half your troops have revolted in outrage to what they’ve done to you. There are riots in the streets and a discontent so widespread it’s threatening civil war. You can’t even bring yourself to be glad to know there are still those in the city who support you, when you saw with your own eyes the threat across the desert. The city cannot afford to be divided, if you have any hopes to survive what’s coming. 

But you’re not a leader, or a king. You’re a soldier, and soldiers know about orders and strategies, not about politics. You don’t know what to say or do to make things better, and the certainty that time is running out makes you more and more desperate with each passing night. 

When they bring you the ultimatum, to either bend the knee to the council and publicly accept their authority, or to be executed for your alleged crimes, a traitorous voice in the back of your head muses if it might not be for the best, to just let them cut your head and be done with it. You can’t do any more harm, if you’re dead. So you sit in your cell, back to the walls and eyes open wide, because you will not give them the satisfaction of watching you cower when they come for you. 

** ৳ **

On the plaza where you once stood, proud and terrified, as Harlow’s mother completed the ritual and summoned the Guardian of the green moon, you kneel now, arms chained behind your back and expression serenely resigned. If it comes to this, you will face it with as much aplomb as you can. All that is left to you is not to let your emotions control you. You’ve done your best, and your best wasn’t enough. 

That’s all. 

“This man!” The head of the council, whose name you can’t even recall, yells as he points at you with the tip of a sword. “This man who claims himself our protector, who swore oaths of service to our people! This man is a traitor!” 

The crowd is a sea of discontent frowns and angry mutterings all around you. You keep your eyes staring at the distant arc of the main gates, nearly obscured by the sprawling hives that reach further and further high with each sweep. You are certain there will be another riot, after you die. You can see the stirrings and the clusters of trolls in formations you taught them, from the corner of your eye. You don’t really understand how it came to be this way, or if there was really anything you could have done to make it different. The head of the council is still speaking, yelling because he doesn’t know how to make his voice echo without making it sound desperate. You only pay attention to him again when you’re shoved forward and you realize the time has come. 

You take a deep breath, mind falling into abrupt, solemn quiet as the screeching finally falls silent, and close your eyes as you bare your neck for the incoming blade. 

One breath. 

You hope wherever they are, your siblings don’t mourn your passing. 

Then another. 

Then the world is reduced to the whistling of the blade. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...leave a comment if you made it past the first line?
> 
> Kidding aside, the beginning of the end, the next two chapters are heartbreaking, and I am so not sorry.
> 
>  
> 
> [Askblog for this verse.](http://that-stupid-fic.tumblr.com)


	13. Indigo § Pragmatist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Drums of War

** Indigo § Pragmatist **

You watch with a grimace as they bring Ulyses up to the plaza, bound and defeated. He tried to play their game, and they destroyed him because of it. He adapted to their rules, learned to parrot out their lies and their deceit. But in the end, it didn’t matter, because what he would not admit was that the game was rigged against him. They did not want to listen. They did not want to be saved. The time for mythical heroes that fought against unspeakable horrors is long past. These trolls do not know the weight of loss, the sweetness of survival. These trolls do not value life as desperately and wholeheartedly as you all used to. So you’ve decided not to play their game anymore, and they will not have you. You snarl under your breath as the pompous head of the false council yells out accusations to incense the crowd that has gathered to watch the gruesome spectacle. Your men are doing some prodding of their own, spread out around the plaza and beyond, but you concentrate on Ulyses and his executor, bow and arrow at the ready, waiting for the right moment. 

It takes all you have, to not shoot sooner, patience worn down by the cruel accusations and the unspeakable crimes they wish to make him pay for. But you steady your hand and keep your breathing slow, gripping the bow hard enough you fear it might splinter in your grip. 

When the ax is raised, you let the arrow fly, carrying with it all your hate and your disdain, but it never reaches its intended target. 

The world is held into place, a faint violet miasma covering every inch of the city and seemingly stopping time. You can feel it pulse against your skin, almost lazily. From where you’re perched atop a roof, you can see the massive double doors open on their own and the slow, steady drum of hooves floods the streets. Soon enough the invading force arrives at the plaza, thousands of riders holding banners carrying the sigil of the city, the old circle of signs of the Pact. And emblazoned at the center of it, a painfully familiar one, in violet. At the head of the group, riding a terrifyingly large beast with dark brown fur, sits a troll that looks radiant in gold and violet. A king by his own right. 

“I leave you for a decade,” Alston the Spiteful says, voice echoing with the same ease as his kismesis’ once did, “and this is what you’ve done with yourselves?” He looks in disdain all around him, eyes glowing like a violet stars as he effortlessly continues to hold the entire city in his grasp. He waves a hand, releasing your arrow and allowing it to land straight on the false councilman’s throat. He dies standing, still cradled in violet and light, unable to even say a thing to defend himself. “If I didn’t want to win this war as much as I do, I’d let you fuckers rot like you deserve.” 

Ulyses is the first one released from his chains, but even when the rest of the trolls present are freed from their psionic restraints, they remain rooted on the spot as they stare in fear and awe at the seadweller and his cavalry. 

You meet his eyes and nod back slowly, when he tilts his head at you. Revolution or war, it is the same to you, at this point. 

** § **

“I reserve the right to see you on your knees, darling,” Spit says, with that same leer on his face you remember for eons ago. 

While Ulyses splutters an answer and tries to decide whether to punch or kiss him, you muse that the seadweller has not changed at all. Not since Harlow died. Not since the night of the Pact. Not since you met him. He remains standing, blasé and nonchalant, confident in his own power and his own standing in the world. You envy him that, somewhat. You envy him his certainty, when you’ve so long gone without it. But as it is, you have a reason to fight, now, that you didn’t have a decade ago. A reason to try and find certainty of your own, if only for someone else’s sake. You remember, a long time ago, you considered him a brother of sorts. You know, a long time ago, the Pact was your family. They gave you a place and a purpose when the meteors burned down your life; they sheltered you and your children and gave you hope for better things. But now the Pact is gone and your family has crumbled to the barest bones. You can’t quite make yourself echo those feelings anymore, when bitterness has swallowed up most of your heart and all that’s left is the feral need to protect a future not your own. 

You were raised to be a scholar, you were chosen to become a leader, but in the end, you’ve always been a mother first. 

“Anyway,” Spit says, grinning widely as he brushes invisible lint from his clothes. “You can now thank me for saving your sorry lives.” 

You move before you can really think about it, slamming your fist into his face with a satisfying _crunch_ as you break his nose. You smile grimly at the flare of anger warming your blood as it rushes through your veins. You ignore Ulyses’ squeak as you pant harshly, feeling wide awake and _furious_. You’re alive, and the world will soon learn to regret it. 

“Or you can punch me clear off my feet,” Spit grumbles, holding his bleeding nose and scowling theatrically, “that’s cool too.” 

“There’s someone you should meet,” you say, loud and dull, like a hammer hitting red hot iron, and the thought makes you smile thin and murderous. “Before anything else.” 

The House of the Ten is somber and too large for you, now, too full of memories and stolen dreams. Too corrupted by the stench of the fake council trying to make it into their nest, to rob the carvings on the walls of all meaning and intent. Trolls have forgotten their history, their past. They have lost all notion of where they came from and what bought their freedom and their right to live. You could give them back that knowledge if you cared to, but you don’t, and you never will. In the vast, empty room that was once full with the echoes of bickering and teasing and a strong, united family, you find their spluttering and smugness offensively out of place, because they are just pieces of the whole and will never be enough, on their own, to fill the gaping wounds left to bleed and fester all around you. 

“Lamech,” you say, soft and kind, and watch them as they watch your child enter the room with the self-conscious air of someone who’d much rather be elsewhere. 

She’s small, but only because you have vivid memories of how tall she will be, one day. The rustblood stares at the men with something like wariness, clutching her ax like a talisman, though she’s smart enough to know she doesn’t stand a chance against either of them. But even if her youth and her meekness are jarring, only a fool would not recognize Zillah the Blacksmith reborn, as she fidgets and comes to stand, half hidden behind your leg. 

“ _How?_ ” Spit demands, taking a step forward and then flinching when Lamech huddles back behind you some more. “Linnea, how is this even possible?” 

“And you will pay,” you repeat the words slowly, ominously, “in Life and Blood and Time you will pay, and what has been done cannot be undone.” You smile thinly. “We might have lost our families to the Great Mother, but apparently not our legacy.” 

** § **

You sit in your old block, humming a dusty lullaby in the back of your throat as you work on braiding Lamech’s hair. 

She has grown much, since you found her. She was young and lost and scared, when you first saw her, carrying her lusus in her arms and staring wide-eyed at the crowd of trolls waiting to welcome the new blood. But even then, you knew you had to look after her. You knew the same force that bound you to Zillah had brought the child to your attention. A whim of fate, perhaps, but not a coincidence. You had lost faith in the city, by then, you had locked up your books and sent them away for safe keeping under Dhraid’s care, and had already resigned yourself to wait for death in mutinous silence. Your life was not your own, even then, so what difference it makes that it is not yours now? 

So you claimed the girl as your own and raised her like you thought Zillah would have wanted her to be raised, this shard of stolen time granted to you by capricious chance. It was only fair, you thought, that someone should look after the child. That someone should teach her the great inheritance she’s entitled to. And you’ve always been a mother, before anything else. You could never do for Zillah anything she couldn’t do herself, but this one thing, this precious life, you could protect and serve and hope to teach better. 

When the city spiraled out of control and it became clear the power was shifting in ways you did not approve of, you took her with you and left these halls, took her somewhere she would be safe. You could deal with the increasingly unsubtle assassination attempts, but you refused to let your child witness such thing. And so you moved to the messy outskirts of the city, outside the tall walls that still stood like a comforting embrace around the memory of its past glory. You settled quietly in the slums, with a child to raise, and dozens more to look after. You were never that interested in politics and the more complicated issues of ruling. So instead of talking about policies and considering consequences, you decided to rule on your own, like a mother the city so desperately needed. And while you taught your child the secrets of letters and the power of the written word, you fought to bring food and water and prosperity to the corners of the city most abandoned by the self-righteous vipers sitting at the top. 

Unlike Ulyses, you did not do it out of obligation to a promise you never made. You didn’t do it to honor Harlow’s memory or hold the fort while the seadwellers were gone. You did it because no one else would, and you refused to watch another child starve under your watch. And bit by bit, over the sweeps, you became the figure all eyes turned to, in their time of need. You became the ear where they poured out their grief, the arms they ran to for comfort, and the strength they looked up to not give up. But you also took great care to keep yourself from those who’d sell your head to the false council. Half a legend, half a mad hope, you became the shelter of the destitute and the last ghost the traitors feared. 

You have gone to war before. You have rallied troops and set out to defend your life and your city. You have killed and even found a certain appeal in it, before. But just this once, you think, _just this once_ , you are ready to give it your all. For this child that looks at you for comfort, for the ghost of old love hidden in the curl of her horns. For everything you’ve given up and lost, until now, and all you now refuse to waste. You are old, now, but you are awake and aware, and ready to be terrible as well. 

You will make the moirail you never had proud of you, and when you do go meet her, across the withered plains, you will go with your chin up high, feral like her. Unafraid. 

“Why do you not like The Spiteful?” Lamech asks, after you’re done tying up the braid, leaning against your side. 

You consider your answer carefully, because Lamech deserves the truth. You’ve taught her the value of it, and the power that can be wielded, with knowledge. You find yourself smiling, as you wrap an arm around her smaller frame. 

“Because he ran,” you say, at last, staring at the fire roaring quietly in a corner of the block. “He was a coward, for running away, and still braver than me, for daring to do what I couldn’t.” 

“You wanted to leave?” Grey eyes, with just the barest flicker of rust in them, stare up at you, a puzzled frown marring her features. 

“I wanted to die,” you admit, pulling her closer against you, this wondrous, beautiful child who will never know the drumming of ten thousand feet, marching as one towards slaughter. “But I wouldn’t have found you, if I had.” 

She seems to muse on this for a moment, then reaches out to cling to you, small hands clutching your clothes as she shudders. 

“I’m glad you’re alive, Mother,” she whispers, burrowing against you, “I’m glad you found me.” 

** § **

“The war is coming,” Spit says, standing on a balcony as he watches Ulyses rally his troops and go through simple exercises in the vast plaza. “A real war, like these kids have never known.” 

“It figures,” you reply, unknind, “that war would bring you back.” 

He thins his lips in annoyance, for a moment stern like he never was. And then he sighs, leaning over to stare at the lines of trolls trying awkwardly to learn how to not die. Were he any other troll, you might feel sorry for the infinite sadness curling in the corners of his mouth. But he’s himself, nothing more and nothing less. Alston the Spiteful, the vagrant king. The one who ran. The one who left you all behind. And you have no soft feelings left for him, not after all you’ve suffered for his sake. 

And then he _smiles_ , half smug, half bitter. 

“That’s right, darling, I’m the fucking _vanguard_.” He reaches over to take one of the cups from the table, staring at its contents almost thoughtfully before drowning it in one gulp. “And I’m far nicer than what’s coming up behind me.” 

“War, you said,” you smile back, thin and empty, drumming your claws on the table. 

“Yes, a war the like this mudball of a planet hasn’t seen in centuries,” he adds, waving the cup around carelessly. “Across the undead desert, a mutant has crowned herself Empress.” He snorts, reaching out to pour more wine. Always more wine, with him. “The Winged Empress, she calls herself, appointed by the gods by the mark of her mutation.” 

“You and I know very well that the only Gods that matter can’t be bothered to give a rat’s ass about any one troll in particular,” you snort, leaning back on your chair. “At least not without paying the price first.” 

“Of course we know that,” Spit snarls, clutching the band of gold that glimmers still around his wrist. “But as matter of fact, what you or I or Ulyses know matters a grand fuck-all, in the big scale of things. She calls herself an Empress by divine right, granted flight to show her greatness, and the fools who live knee deep in their own shit believe it, because the fools who live knee deep in their own shit have nothing better to occupy their thoughts.” And down his gullet goes the wine, without even been tasted. His eyes are narrowed and his jaw set, and he’d impress you a lot more, if you weren’t so tired of being disappointed in him. “You haven’t fought against her army. I have. I have seen fully grown trolls drop themselves nose first into their swords because she commanded it. She sacrificed a thousand souls to try and cower us before the clash, and let me tell you, trolls cowered. Even as we bathed in the blood of the zealots, trolls _cowered_.” 

“So Dhraid’s city has fallen, then,” you say, almost conversationally, reaching for your own cup. “The North is hers.” 

Spit gives you a look of startled contempt that makes you smile. Good. The sooner he realizes he doesn’t know you anymore – might have never truly known you in the first place – the sooner he’ll stop acting like he’s entitled to anything of yours; your attention or your time, for instance. 

“No.” His eyes narrow and his smile turns even more brittle than before. “Dhraid’s city is guarded by something far greater than trolls.” He laughs, short and sharp. “Her city will stand long after you and I are but shapeless ghosts across the pages of our own legend. Such is the deal she made.” 

“Perhaps we should make a deal of our own, then,” you arch an eyebrow as you study him over the rim of your cup. “It worked for her, after all.” 

“Harlow was mad enough to bargain with Gods, and even he knew better than to bargain with Witches.” Spit sags into his chair, grimacing. “And even if we were desperate enough, there are no Witches left. Tyrell left with them, to somewhere we will never reach them again.” 

“So all that’s left to us is wait and brace for the war that’s coming,” you summarize, not able to take a frustrated note off your voice as you speak, sneering in disdain. 

“We could run, of course,” Spit adds, smiling wryly, “but eventually we’d run out of places to run to. She needs to be stopped, because she’s not going to stop on her own.” 

“You could have just said that and be done,” you taunt him, because the alternative is to ponder on his words and realize what they really mean, and that’s something you’d much rather do alone when he’s not watching, lest you shatter at his feet. “No need for melodrama.” 

Spit barks a laugh, willing, despite it all, to play along with your games. You refuse to find that endearing, just on principle alone. 

“Ah, take it from an old man, Linnea the Scholar, melodrama is the one thing that makes life worth living, in the long run.” 

** § **

They take Spit and his threats of war seriously, after the first battle. They went along his orders, before, because he had an organized army and the council didn’t, and most of the trolls in the city were afraid of him and the consequences of defying him. Now they are all too aware that the consequence for failure is painful, inescapable death, and all of a sudden they flock after the seadweller like children hiding behind their mother’s legs. 

It takes you a moment to realize most of the trolls doing the hiding don’t actually _know_ what a mother is, anymore. 

Still, you were never really formidable, in the field of battle. You were always so busy poring over books and keeping notes and cataloging information that no one bothered to take into account for anything, because deep down, you left your soul behind, in the grand library of Deathpeak, and despite how long you spent rummaging through the charred ruins, you never found it. It is also true that you never really tried to be formidable, not like you remember Zillah and Spyros to be. You cared above all about your children and their lives, and long ago you could almost convince yourself that the trolls hiding behind the walls of the city were your children too, after a fashion, and muster that motherly wrath to try and keep them safe. 

But you only have one child, now, and no illusions that any other will join her any time soon. 

So for the first time in your life, you have stepped into the battle field and _tried_. You didn’t just defend and push away. You didn’t just secure a position and let others cower behind you. You took your staff and set out to walk on footsteps not your own, a trail left behind by larger, stronger feet than yours. It was oddly satisfying, when you let loose your rage and found it a bottomless pit ready to fuel any amount of violence you required. And that night, as you lead the vanguard into the battle, the world itself seemed to remember you still exist, that you too have a right to be called mighty. 

It takes days for the blood to completely wash out from under your claws, and even then, you can still feel it caking on your skin, dry and brittle and oh so worthless in the end. Lamech seeks your side, but you rebuke her, and she doesn’t understand why. You don’t know how to explain that the warmth has left your side, in the wake of bloodlust so strong you can’t put it into words. 

You are angry, you realize, beneath the crushing weight of your own broken heart. 

You are _angry_ , and the world has gone on for far too long without knowing it. 

** § **

The battles pile upon each other, until they blur into one continuous massacre. The city’s reserves are far from depleted, but the people are tired. These are trolls hatched and raised in peace, after all, they weren’t prepared for the constant struggle of survival, and despite Spit and Ulyses best attempts to mobilize your forces, the people are being slowly worn out by the constant, unending struggle. Night in, night out, their morale fades bit by bit, in the face of the relentless assault by the zealots. So when the Northerners fall upon your enemies like a hammer from the gods, the people rejoice and scream and laugh as their forces trample over the enemy to make their way to your door. It is not a god who rides at their head, though. It is Dhraid, harsh and unforgiving as she always was, directing her troops with a twitch of her fans, until the forces pressing against your door are reduced to a smudge of gore and death. Her banners mirror Spit’s, but the city’s doors do not open on their own for her. It’s the survivors huddling still inside that push them wide open for her, clamoring for a savior to deliver them from war. 

“Figures they would love _her_ ,” Spit mutters acidly, standing by your side as Dhraid’s forces flood the streets among the cheering crowds. 

“They love you too,” Ulyses says, holding onto his hand and willing to lie with the same misguided affection that has kept him all but glued to Spit’s side since his return. 

“No, they don’t,” you mutter, because it’s the truth. 

“ _Of course_ they don’t,” Spit agrees, looking up at you from the corner of his eye, smirk in place. “I’ve never promised them anything I don’t intent to deliver.” 

“Still, it’s nice,” Ulyses soothes, expression wry, “all of us back together again.” 

“Almost all of us,” Spit corrects, a shadow passing over his face. “But I suppose you’re right.” He lets an arm fall around Ulyses’ shoulder, a bold display of affection he would not have allowed himself in public, back when Harlow was still around to worry about the old ways. “The city should do well in remembering what the Council actually is.” 

“Well at the very least we might finally get something done,” you sigh, folding your arms over your chest as Dhraid’s group comes to a stop on the grand plaza at the feet of the House of the Ten. “For a change.” 

She dismounts with ease, not looking back as she climbs the stairs to where you stand. She looks much older, from up close; older than any of you, which is odd because she’s not the oldest by any means. But the lines across her face are from a lifetime of scowling and there are streaks of grey in her hair, where it lost its lustrous shine. Yet her eyes are no less sharp than you remember them. She comes to stand before you with a smirk, and for a moment it feels like the gaps in your soul aren’t there anymore. For a moment you expect to look sideways and see the others still there, grinning and leering and taunting. For one fleeting second, you remember what it was like, when you were whole. And the disappointment when you remember the truth is all the more painful because of it. 

“So!” Dhraid says, hands on her hips and one eyebrow firmly arched, “how about you feed me first, before you start explaining how badly you’ve fucked up?” 

The moons are bright and full, hanging high in the sky, and for the first time in forever, you feel things might actually get better. 

** § **

You find Dhraid sitting in an old bench in one of the inner gardens of the House of the Ten. Between the war and the fact that it’s been a long time since there has been enough staff to properly look after it, the garden is unkept, weeds and flowers growing messily all over the place, covering the old paths. Oddly, Dhraid doesn’t really look out of place, staring at the sky from under the shadow of an old tree, holding a cup of tea in her hand. Gone are her fine silks and the jewelry she chose so carefully every night, replaced by tough leather and chainmail and armor plates; and still she looks dignified and composed in a way you’ve never been. 

“You could have stayed with me,” she says, as a greeting, when you approach her. “I told you, when I took your library for safekeeping, didn’t I? My city is your city. You could have stayed there.” 

“I know,” you reply, quiet, as you go sit at her right, back hunched over from the tension of the past few nights. The false council has been positively unbearable, trying by all means to discredit you all and take back some of the authority they used to have. “But this is my city, too. This is the city we were meant to raise our children in, after all.” 

The false council doesn’t care about the war, doesn’t really understand what happens to the leaders of cities that fall after a battle. All they want is to go back to that time where they held all the power and the wealth, and you know deep down it’s your fault, for letting them get a taste of it in the first place. Now they try to stop your advances blindly, not understanding the large scale implications of their petty ambition. You would kill them all, but Spit has allowed them to live on. And truth be told, you concede that having to go toe to toe against Spit is a punishment far worse than the relative peace of death. 

“True enough,” Dhraid concedes, sipping her tea thoughtfully. “Still, sometimes it feels like there’s no place left in the world where one can raise children.” 

“That’s not what Spit says about your city,” you mutter as you rest your hands on the bench and tilt your head back to stare at the sky. Lots of stars out, tonight. It reminds you of the nights during the great march, when the world was reduced to the wasteland ahead and the sky above. “He says it will hold, no matter what.” 

“Oh, it will hold,” Dhraid laughs, short and bitter. “But how long before the impregnable fortress becomes an inescapable prison? I suppose I will never find out. Now that I’ve left, I know I will never go back.” 

“Then why leave at all?” You look at her from the corner of your eye, trying to remember how to keep the hostility in check and failing somewhat miserably. “Why come back after all these sweeps?” 

Dhraid stares at you for a moment, as if weighting the right answer. And then she snorts, unfolding one of her fans with a snap. You feel a twist of something painful when you realize it’s one of the ones Zillah made, all those lifetimes ago. 

“Because this is my city too,” she says, standing up, back ramrod straight and proud, “because I bled and fought and suffered for it, too, and I’m too proud to let it go to waste now.” You smile a little at that, but then her next words wipe the expression clean off your face. “At least that’s what Alston said.” 

You can’t quite hide your disbelief as you snort and look away. 

“Spit talked you into coming h...back,” you say, voice flat and expression unamused as you ignore your own slip of tongue. 

Dhraid looks at you half curiously, half disapproving. 

“I’ve said nothing, thus far, because your feelings are your own, and to my shame I shared them once,” she smiles thinly, not quite looking at you in the eye, “it is not my place to tell you what to feel, about Alston the Spiteful. It is not my place to try and justify his faults, because they are far too many to count and all of them are as real and raw as the scars on his face.” Dhraid swallows hard. “But I’m still going to say this, because then maybe you won’t have to find out on your own and feel the same conflicted shame I do: do not misjudge the Vagrant King, Linnea, do not let his faults and his kindness blind you to the core of strength he tries so desperately to hide. Aston the Spiteful was not titled lightly, and now that Harlow and Alilah are gone, there is no one left to tame his wrath. He is not to be taken lightly, and neither is his loyalty.” 

“His loyalty?” You laugh bitterly. “He _left_ us. When he needed him the most, he just _left_.” 

“Of course he did, he’s a self-centered, selfish idiot,” Dhraid laughs, slowly fanning herself, “and if we didn’t need him, we would have never seen him again. There’s loyalty in the fact he came back. And it’s true, it’d be easier if he hadn’t come back. It’d be more convenient if he had stayed away, because then we could have just hated him for his selfishness and stopped counting on him. But that’s the truly annoying thing about him, Linnea. He came back. And he will not make it easy, either, every step of the way. He will be wholly himself, bitter and absurd and stupid, because that’s who he _is_.” 

You watch Dhraid snap the fan shut, her knuckles paling as she hold onto it. You’ve never seen Dhraid like this before, though of course you were never too close, before. You reckon the only person Dhraid was truly close to was Harlow. Perhaps Tyrell, sometimes. You wonder if she misses them as much as you miss everyone else. And of course, her being back, so close to Ulyses, it only invokes the ghost of Zillah all the more, which is, you suppose, why Ulyses has remained practically glued to Spit’s side while Dhraid has kept only your company for now. 

“What did he do to you?” You wonder out loud, head tilted to the side as you try to puzzle together her anger and her shame and her bitterness into something that makes sense. 

“The most unforgivable thing,” Dhraid says, looking at her feet instead of your face, even as she smirks hollowly. “He saved my life.” 

** § **

You find Ulyses sitting on the ground, back against the door to Spit’s old quarters. Which you suppose are still his quarters, considering he’s reclaimed them after his return. You’ve been busy mulling on Dhraid’s story – which, you hate to admit, is exactly the type of thing you’d expect Spit to do, grandiose and ridiculous and yet so very poignant in the end – and of course, unleashing most of your frustration about it on the battlefield. But after much deliberation, you’ve decided something has to give. You need to stand together, to make a difference in this war. Although Dhraid’s forces helped revive the fire in your own troops, the fact remains that you’re not fighting scavengers trying desperately to survive, nor are you fighting arrogant goldbloods using technology to try and balance out the fact they’re outnumbered. You’re the ones who are outnumbered. You’re the ones whose reserves are slowly dwindling as the siege continues as the enemy keeps coming no matter what you do. You need to stand together and you admit grudgingly that Spit has been trying to do exactly that, since he arrived, for all you’ve tried not to think about it. 

So you approach his quarters with your head tilted high and your jaw set, because you don’t want to do this, but ruling has taught you that is precisely why you should do it in the first place. 

Before you can greet Ulyses and try to explain yourself, however, a loud crash echoes inside the block, and you find yourself holding your weapon before you can think about it. Ulyses merely flinches. 

“It’s okay,” he says, in a sullen tone that lets you know it’s anything but. “He’s talking to _Her_.” 

“Dhraid?” you ask, one eyebrow arched, because your conversation with her left you with the certainty the days of their fights are long over, and they were never really violent, anyway. 

“No,” Ulyses sighs, scowling, “the witch.” 

“I thought witches were all gone now,” you say, a little confused. 

“Well, not a Witch-Witch,” Ulyses snorts, “but, you know. A witch. She appeared all of nowhere and then next thing I know he threw me out.” 

The next crash makes the entire building shake. You end up leaning up against a wall as Dhraid storms down the corridor, expression dark. And then the door flings open, causing Ulyses to fall back at the sudden lack of support, and Spit is there, crackling violet and murderous. 

“Come on in already,” he hisses, stepping back to let you into his block, and also to let you see the woman sitting on the windowsill, wearing bright green and holding onto white wands. “Let’s get this over and done with.” 

“Yes,” says the unknown troll, who seems to not even feel her massive horns weighting down her head, smiling a terrible sneer. “Let’s.” 

You share a look with Dhraid and Ulyses, uncertain, as you find yourself the last one to cross the doorway. With little other choice, though, you go. 

** § **

“You need the Undying to win this war,” the stranger – she called herself the Handmaid, and you’re not sure you want to accept that, because the implications are disastrous – explains as she drinks shamelessly form Spit’s gourd. “She’s the only one who can defeat the Winged Empress.” 

“Not arguing that, exactly,” Ulyses says, fiddling with his sleeves, “but why do you care?” 

“The Winged Empress must be defeated,” the Handmaid says, shrugging, “that’s how it’s supposed to go.” 

“Don’t try to argue with her, darling,” Spit says with a snort, snatching the gourd away, “there’s only headaches and frustration down that road, trust me.” 

“You care about the now,” the Handmaid explains, “but the now is insignificant. Key things must happen, how they happen or who accomplishes them, doesn’t matter. You can’t see the line stretching forward, so you don’t understand. That is why I’m here. To make sure you don’t stray from your intended path.” She shrugs and takes the gourd back, expressing eerily blank. “The Winged Empress must be defeated and only the Undying can complete this task. She will return, eventually, so you can hold on the fort and wait for her. Or one of you can die, and the shock of it will in essence call her back from her Mother’s abode.” 

“No one’s going to die,” Spit snarls, glowering at her with sparks of violet crackling along his arms. 

The Handmaid is unmoved. 

“You will all die, eventually,” she replies, unruffled. “That is your greatest blessing. You will be allowed to end, and the world will go on without you. You should not disdain that gift; there is a great value in death.” 

“No one’s going to die _now_ ,” Spit clarifies, with the testy undertone of someone who’s had this conversation far too many times and is not in the mood for another round. 

“Not one of us, you mean,” Dhraid says acidly, hands primly folded on her lap. “I assure you many trolls are dying even as we speak, every night, seemingly without end.” Her smile sharpens dangerously. “But even so, suicide is not how you win a war.” 

“She will be here, by the next full twin moons,” the Handmaid says, impassive. 

“The Undying?” Ulyses asks, anxious. 

“The Winged Empress,” the Handmaid corrects, without looking at him, and then she smirks. “She will bring the brunt of her army with her, and if you survive that first night of combat, the next dusk will greet the Undying back among your ranks.” 

“We will,” Spit and Dhraid snarl, almost feral. 

“You hope,” she says, a funny undertone in her voice. “But if you doubt, you know what must be done. So—“ 

“Go,” Spit says, arrogant and snide, “you had your drink and you spoke your piece. Now leave.” 

The Handmaid shrugs and then vanishes into nothing, right before your eyes. The others look at each other and seem ready to argue and begin to plan. Instead, you stand up and turn to leave. 

“Linnea—“ 

“I must see to my daughter,” you say, not looking back. “Just fill me up later, about what you need me to do.” 

** § **

The nights melt into one another, as you fight like you were told. The Handmaid’s words had a terrible effect in you four, one you all tried to deny and yet cannot really hide. You have a clear objective now, for all Spit snarls over and over again, that the Handmaid lies. You must hold until that last stand, and then it will be over. You all want it to be over, with the same desperate rage you wanted the aftermath of the Great Catastrophe to be over. 

You want the bloodshed and the misery to stop, and if Alilah is the key to it, just like Harlow was once, you will wait and fester and prepare to give it all. 

You’re all so concerned with the upcoming battle, preparing troops and scraping supplies from the bottom of your long-depleted reserves, that you don’t see the danger coming until it’s too late. 

Until the swords and spears turn to you and the drug clouds your mind until you fall, and all you can think about is the sound of your daughter’s voice screaming in outrage. 

** § **

“Dhraid is still free,” Ulyses says, like a mantra, over the constant struggle to free himself. “Dhraid is still out there, she will not let this stand.” 

Bound in a corner of your own cell, you say nothing, thoughts consumed by your daughter and what might have happened to her in your absence. 

“Dhraid is still free,” Ulyses goes on, pushing against his restraints, you think, because his cell has no window from which to see the moons, mismatched and terrible, hanging from the night sky. 

You look over at the cell furthest from the light, where bound under a pile of chains and drugged by the same strange concoction that brought you all down during the assault, Alston the Spiteful lays unmoving. 

“We’re running out of time,” you say, at last, pressing against the wall with your shoulders to push yourself upright onto your feet. “If one of us—“ 

“ _No_ ,” Ulyses snarls, throwing himself at the bars with his teeth bared, “we do not win wars by committing suicide. We will not give them the satisfaction to die.” 

“My daughter is probably dead,” you whisper, as the lull of grief swells in your soul. It is familiar to you, mourning and loss, and you are so terrible at avoiding the well-trodden path. “They’re going to offer us to her, to try and buy the safety of the survivors. They’ll bend the knee and use us as sacrificial beasts to seal their pact. What difference does it make?” 

“If they kill us, they kill us,” Ulyses says, with a determination you never knew he had. This is not the same troll who allowed them to bound him and send him to the execution block in meek silence. You wonder what made him change and then realize you do know. The reason he still wants to fight is lying up in a puddle of dirty water in the darkest cell of the dungeon, unmoving but not dead yet. Not yet. “But Dhraid is out there and she will not let this go. Have faith in her, there’s still a chance.” 

“My daughter is _dead_ ,” you snarl, throwing yourself at the bars of your cell, much like he did before, but your sheer bulk makes the sound echo louder in the dark. “She’s—“ 

“You don’t know that,” Ulyses snaps back, eyes narrowed. “Dhraid wouldn’t have let them touch your daughter.” 

“You say she’s free, maybe she’s just dead.” 

“We survived the meteors,” Ulyses hisses between his teeth, shoving his shoulder against the bars once more. “We survived the march. We survived the Pact. We survived wars and famines and traitors and Witches and _dragons_.” The sound that comes out of your mouth is barely troll-like, a frustrated screech of outrage that he’d dare step on that wound, even now. “We will survive this, and when it’s all over we’re gonna mount her stupid fucking wings above the doorway of the House of the Ten, and we’ll put her head on a spike, and we’ll make Alilah pay for leaving by crowning _her_ Empress and make her do all the work, while we grow old and die like Harlow did, peacefully, in our sleep.” 

“You were ready to die, once,” you say, forehead pressed against the bars, feeling the helplessness coiling deep into your soul. “What’s different now? Why fight when you were willing to bend the neck, before?” 

Ulyses laughs. 

“Someone reminded me of what I already knew,” he says, smiling shakily as he looks at you straight in the eye. “Dying is easy, living is not. We are the Pact, we do not take the easy road. We stand and we fight and we conquer and we _win_. This isn’t going to be any different from that.” 

“We are the Pact, and we are trolls,” you reply, sighing. “And trolls die.” You swallow hard, Lamech’s smile and Zillah’s smirk haunting you from the depths of your memory. “But not without a fight.” 

Ulyses grins, a nightmare of crooked teeth. 

“Not without a fight.” 

** § **

They take Spit first. Still bound and drugged, he’s dragged away in rags and chains, looking nothing like the proud commander who arrived just perigees before and took over the city without question. Oddly, you think, as you watch them drag him past your cell, he looks a lot like the troll that always walked half a step behind at Harlow’s left: unkept and destitute and yet so very dangerous because of it. They leer at you, as they go by, the faceless snakes from the false council, trying to taunt you with their promise of violence and death. You’ve burned your grief into the pyre of your rage, though, and you’ve come out of the experience jaded and uncaring of their taunts. It’s not over and you haven’t given it your all, yet. You can’t die without trying first, because then Zillah would not welcome you to her side, when you do join her across the withered plains. 

When they come for you, you’re ready to make it as hard as possible, but you don’t get a chance. An ax embeds itself into your would be captor’s head. And then a second one whistles through the air, before the guard reaching for Ulyses can react to his comrade’s death. 

“We need to go,” Lamech says, rushing into the block and fumbling for the keys. “Lady Dhraid said we had ten minutes to pull this off.” She looks at you, eyes mostly filled in with rust and determination making her expression almost severe. You don’t resist the urge to pull her into your arms, then, pressing your face into her neck as she laughs nervously and sags against you. You have missed so much, because of this stupid war. You’ve missed so much that you’ll never get back and the knowledge makes your determination redouble. This is not how it was meant to go, you think, but that only means you will try harder this time, to make things right. “Oh mother, I am so sorry it took this long, I—“ 

“We need to go,” you say, licking your lips, “and you need to explain your plan.” 

“C’mon, c’mon,” Ulyses mutters, as Lamech frees him, bouncing in place like an excited child. 

Somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to hold it against him. He looks alive and ready, and you find yourself reminiscing in the old days, when you hadn’t had chance to doubt his commitment to your cause. Just tonight, you tell yourself, for the sake of the old vows and the even older memories, you’ll trust him like he always wanted you to trust him, even if he never earned the right before. Just for tonight. 

“It’s not really a plan,” Lamech says, stepping back as Ulyses takes stock of his tired limbs and the places where the chains bit into skin until it bled. “She just told me to get you while she created a distraction and freed Spit herself. She said she had a debt to pay.” 

“Of course she did,” you say, shaking your head. “Let’s go grab our weapons and put the fear of us in a few misbehaving children.” 

“Oh yes, please,” Ulyses laughs, patting your arm as he goes, while Lamech stops by to pick up her axes. “If we’re gonna go out, we’re gonna go out with a bang.” 

“I thought we were supposed to live until old age,” you taunt him, walking briskly down the corridor as Lamech leads you along the way. 

“Well yes, ideally,” Ulyses says, shrugging. “But having a backup plan is never a bad idea, right?” 

Then there are traitors in your way, so you don’t get a chance to speak anymore. You don’t need to, you find slaughter does all the talking you need. 

** § **

When you step outside, the city is in flames. You find you don’t really care, not after the most recent betrayal. You’re glad to see trolls screaming and running around, as the flames devour everything in their way. Lamech falls into step with you with an ease that pains you, as you trample down the few trolls that gather enough wits to realize they should try and stop you. You grin with gruesome satisfaction as you cut them down, stepping on the puddles of blood they leave behind with a newfound light in your eyes, because this is it, this is the time to let go of your resentment and make someone else shoulder the burden for a change. 

Dhraid meets you in the grand plaza, where eons and lifetimes ago, you stood proud and swore for caste and blood, a Pact you’ve never stopped regretting in the sweeps after Zillah died her unfair death. Her face and her clothes are bloodied, but you think most of it is someone else’s. The tilt of her chin certainly implies it. 

“We need to leave the city,” she says, pulling Spit against her side, “get out and regroup so we can strike back when this moron stops being dead weight.” 

“It’s your daring rescue, really,” Ulyses says, grinning wryly, “so lead the way.” 

“The fire is cover enough; we might as well go out through the front door.” Dhraid smirks as she shifts her hold on Spit. “So let’s go, whatever you do, don’t look back.” 

“There’s nothing left to look back at,” you say, holding Lamech’s hand in yours. “At this point.” 

It’s true, but that doesn’t make it any less painful to consider. 

** § **

The slums outside the city are on fire too, but they’re not enough distraction to not notice the precise lines of the army standing on the fields beyond. An army far larger than you’ve ever seen, even before the meteors tore Alternia apart. Hundreds of thousands of trolls, armed and waiting for the orders of their Empress. Dhraid swears as you huddle by the edge of the slums, clearly not expecting to meet that army there. She keeps Spit pressed close to her side, as he mutters incoherently, deep in the grip of his own mind. 

“If we make it to the old tunnels, the Grand Mother will give us sanctuary,” Dhraid says, swallowing hard as she licks her lips. “I’ve ordered my people to rouse the rest of the city into fighting, and with the threat of the fire, they just might. We just need to slip away.” 

“The Great Mother will not hurt her own children,” you say, pulling your own close to you, “she’s said so before.” 

“We’re not asking her to,” Ulyses points out, “not this time. We’ll just be asking for somewhere to stay for a while.” 

“Let’s get there first,” Dhraid suggests, taking a deep breath and hauling Spit up again, “we can argue semantics with her once we’re safe.” 

Uncertain but determined, you go. 

** § **

The battle is clearly tipped in favor of the invader force, what with their superior numbers and organized strategy and their willingness to murder anything that moves. The city musters up a mediocre defense at best, but at this point you couldn’t care less what happens to them. All you want is for them to serve as a distraction while you and the others make your way out. Once upon a time you gave your all, for them. You bled and suffered for their sake. They were your children, and you were their mother. But the betrayals have been one too many, their willingness to forget who they are and why they’re here, they’ve been too much for you to forgive. 

You’re halfway through the slums, heading towards one of the old openings of the tunnels, when you hear the battle come abruptly to a stop. The slums were built on the slope of the hill where the city proper was built, so you have a vantage point from which to look at the battle and judge your movements to go unnoticed by the bloodshed down below. At this time, it serves to let you see the source of the commotion that has made both armies stop and consider the situation. 

Dhraid’s hold on Spit loosens up as you stare at the ghost roaring in mad outrage at the center of the battlefield. 

“We have to go back,” Ulyses babbles incoherently, as Spyros the Reckless – or a ghost that looks terribly like him – hollers at the sky and begins to slaughter indiscriminately, every troll around him, “we have to—“ 

“Spyros is dead,” you say, licking your lips and reaching out to help Dhraid with her burden, before you can really think about it. “He’s been dead for decades now.” 

“Then who’s that?” Ulyses demands, pointing at the heart of the massacre, as both armies join forces for a moment, trying to subdue the enraged purpleblood. “Who’s fighting there?” 

“No one,” Dhraid snaps, with callous finality. “Just like us.” 

** § **

The old tunnel has been covered up carelessly, left behind as mostly a place for children to play and ignore their betters. You task Lamech with protecting Spit, as you three work on removing the planks from the gaping hole in the ground. It’s harder than it looks, but you’re in a hurry and the adrenaline is a good motivator to hurry up. Ulyses curses loudly as he slashes his hand open with a piece of rotten wood. You can’t help but snicker somewhat hysterically at the sight of his blood, spilled over something so insignificant. 

And then Dhraid’s words are proven false, just as you manage to pry open a hole big enough. 

The band of gold in your hand glows and burns, and in your mind you see the heart of the battle, as Spyros the Reckless finally falls to the combined efforts of the trolls around him. Dhraid shrieks in pain, falling back on the ground as she clutches her arm, her voice echoed by a monstrous screech coming out of Spit’s mouth. Ulyses stumbles and nearly falls into the hole, and only your quick reflexes catch him. You grit your teeth as the pain intensifies as you clutch his wrist, feeling your shoulder burn by the sudden pull. 

Rage and madness poison your mind as Spyros passes through it one last time, leaving behind him molten suffering in your veins that makes your vision swim. You clutch Ulyses desperately, not even sure why you’re desperate at all. You stare at his eyes and for a moment you wonder what would happen if you let him go. If you fell after him, and put a final end to it. Then you remembered you promised to give your all, just this once, and you snarl and heave and dig your claws into his skin. 

“Yes, yes,” a mocking voice, echoes all around you, just as you manage to pull Ulyses up enough that he can clutch the edge of the opening on his own. “This is what the mighty Pact has been reduced to, scurrying rats trying to escape oblivion.” 

The Winged Empress descends upon you with a wide smirk, her wings fluttering behind her and leaving behind a trail of bright red dust. It’s not the comforting rust you’ve grown to love so desperately, over the sweeps, however. It’s brighter and obscene, like the color of her eyes and her armor. She carries her sword in hand, sneering down at you as her feet slowly touch the ground. You scream as Lamech launches herself at her, ax at the ready, and keep on screaming as she falls over, cleaved in two. You try to lunge at her, teeth bare and eyes clouded by rage, but your body gives in, too wrecked by pain and the echoes of the dead to obey you. 

“This is all you’ve become, obsolete and broken,” the mutant says, sliding her eyes from you to Dhraid to Ulyses to Spit, who’s still writhing in insensate pain at her feet. “You were great, once, veritable gods amongst trolls, but your time has passed. Your era is over, and mine is just beginning.” 

The bracelet burns again, as Dhraid steps in the way and the sword cuts cleanly through her, rather than Spit. You scream again, tumbling forward with what’s left of your strength, baring your teeth in rage as Dhraid’s corpse falls to the ground, limp and lifeless. Such a stupid thing to do, you think and feel the echoes of Dhraid’s own disdain for her own sacrifice. Such a stupid debt to hang onto, for such a stupid troll who’s barely worth it on a good night. Such a waste. You stumble, again, as the bracelet rages once more, and your eyes turn to Ulyses in a panic, which doubles when you realize he’s still alive and crawling out of the ground, breathing raged. 

In your mind, the great abode of the Great Mother flashes behind your eyes, thousands of eggs broken at your feet. Rage and helplessness bubbles in your gut, as the impossible silence blankets your thoughts. 

“What have you done?” You whisper, trembling as you try to stand again. “What have you _done_?” 

“I will make a new Pact,” the mutant laughs, “from the ashes of the old one, a true Pact that will last fore—“ 

She flutters away, taking to the sky to avoid the strike of violet lighting aiming at her feet. The ground explodes on contact; dust rolling all around you and making you cough as you struggle to make out the figure slowly rising from the ground. 

“This is my world now!” The mutant says, just as she flies away, leaving behind a trail of that disgusting red. 

But you don’t mind her words. You cannot. Not when Alston the Spiteful is slowly raising from the ground, glowing like a violet star as lightning crackles all around him; his hands clutching uselessly at his head. He screams as he goes, further and further up, the light growing brighter and the ground itself shaking in recoil. The sky darkens in response to his powers, dark clouds swallowing up the stars and the moons, until the glow from his powers overtakes the light of the moons themselves. The earth shakes under your feet, bolts of violet smashing it to shapeless dust. In the distance, you hear screaming and panic as the mismatched armies witness the storm of psionics high above. 

And then there’s silence, for a moment, and all is dark and still, so that when he screams his fury to the sky the shockwave obliterates everything in its path. 

“Linnea—“ Ulyses says, clutching at your arm as you watch him slowly come undone. 

You hold his hand, so hard you hear his bones break under the strain, and brace for impact as that violet death races towards you, unforgiving as it swallows up trolls and hives and streets and walls and animals and _everything_. Then the world is violent and bright, and your last conscious thought is that at least this way, you will not have to dispose of your daughter’s body yourself. 

But it’s soon replaced by nothing, the very same nothing you’ve become. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm not even sorry.
> 
> [Tumblr for this verse.](http://that-stupid-fic.tumblr.com)


	14. Fuchsia ♓ Ruler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Empress of Vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inordinate amount of thanks to Erin, without whom this monster would have never seen the light of day, Rieka,whose ruthless editing skills have saved you all more than once from being subjected to my rambling bullshit, and Ashkatom, whose patient and co-conspirator giggling has reminded me more than once that I truly wanted to see this monster completed.
> 
> It's been a ride, guys.
> 
> Another big thank you to anyone who's taken the time to read, comment and kudos this work. I know this is by nature an unpopular subject matter. You guys are awesome and I want you to know that each and every comment and kudos you've left means the absolute world to me.

** Fuchsia ♓ Ruler **

The world is barren, when you break the surface. The hill where the House of the Ten once stood has been flattened into a valley of death, which consumed the city and much of the grounds surrounding it. In the sky, the moons shine full and bright, casting ominous shadows among the debris left behind. All around you is silence, broken only by the uneven, pained echo of your breathing. Your gills throb at your sides, but it’s nothing compared to the searing pulse of gold wrapped snuggly around your arms. You hiss air through your clenched teeth, refusing to allow the sob trapped in your throat to escape and become a scream. One step, and then the other, your culling fork drags along the dusty ground, but you refuse to stop. In the distance, standing at the center of the destruction, a lithe figure glimmers in green light, waiting. 

“It was better this way,” the Handmaid says, when you’re close enough to see her clearly. “They would have suffered much worse, if they’d been allowed to linger beyond their time.” 

You ignore her words, even though her impassive tone taunts you and makes you want to teach her how to scream. You ignore the stench of burnt flesh and the weight of your Mother’s whispers in your mind, because lying at her feet is Alston the Spiteful, bloodied and yet strangely whole, despite the desolation he wrecked with his last breath. You slide down to your knees without really thinking about it, reaching out to touch him with the glow of Life at your fingertips, because the others might be gone, but you can still try. 

It has been sweeps now, but you’ve never forgiven yourself for running, the night Harlow died, instead of staying and _trying_. 

“He’s dead,” the Handmaid points out plaintively, as you dig in your fingers into his shoulders, forcing the light into his body, but finding there’s nowhere for it to go. 

“Shut up,” you hiss, wetness rolling down your cheeks in frustration and anger and grief. 

“You’re a child of Life, alright, but you never played the Game, you never got stronger,” the Handmaid goes on, the same matter-of-fact monotone, “all you have is your innate gift for Life, but that needs _something_ to work on.” She pauses awkwardly, “and he’s dead.” 

“Shut up!” You shove your will, like you learned to, all those eons ago, under your Mother’s kind tutelage. You shove and shove, and steadfastly ignore the slick of blood on your hands. “I just—“ 

"He's gone now, and even if you could bring him back, you would regret it for the rest of your life." 

"You know how to undo this," you say, realization dawning, terrible and true.

You remember that night, so many sweeps ago and yet, in perspective, not so long ago, when you stood among the Pact and taunted the Guardian into accepting the bargain. You remember his last warning – just remember, little trolls, that no matter what might happen next, you _chose_ this – and feel an echo of dread. You don’t like it. You don’t like this feeling of unease and uncertainty gnawing at your soul. You don’t like feeling powerless. Not now, that you realize the choice was never really a choice in the first place. 

“You don’t need him, you know.” You snarl up at the Handmaid, but she remains unmoved by your rage. One day, you swear, one day you’ll force an expression on that face, one of grief and anguish and pain to rival what you’re going through. “You can do all you have to do, on your own. You’re strong enough to be alone.” And then, she smirks. The world narrows down to the length of that smirk, smug and mocking. Your blood boils in your veins as your eyes swim in red. “Besides, if you did figure out how to bring him back, you’d regret it in the long run. You always regret everything, after you throw yourself face first into it, just because you can.”

You swing the culling fork at her face, but she dodges the strike, simply rising up and back, feet no longer touching the ground.

You snarl.

“So it can be done,” you say, low and feral, “I can bring at least him back.”

The Handmaid arches an eyebrow, snide.

“You haven’t even heard a word I said, have you?” She mutters dryly, folding her arms over her chest, hair trailing down the sides of her face.

“Oh, I’ve heard enough,” you reply, carefully lowering your moirail’s body onto the ground, before rising up, culling fork held tightly in both hands. “You know how to undo this, and you will tell me how. Now.”

“Because you command it so?” The Handmaid’s expression becomes a sneer.

You’ve never hated a sneer so much before in your entire life.

“Yes,” you say, tilting your chin up arrogantly.

The Handmaid laughs.

“With whose authority?” She asks, one eyebrow arched, as she dodges another strike of your culling fork. You realize with trepidation the words won’t come to your mouth, to verbalize why exactly you can demand anything you want of her. You are so sure, you realize, so certain of your place and your importance, you’ve never had to justify your demands to anyone before. “Your Mother’s?” The Handmaid goes on, gracefully avoiding each and every strike to attempt against her. She’s enjoying your frustration, you know, and her amusement is only fueling the pit of rage burning in your gut. “Your Mother doesn’t scare me, Alilah the Undying, I serve harsher, more monstrous masters than her. No,” and suddenly the world darkens around her, so the strange light wrapped around her limbs is brighter, more ominous. “If you want this, you will do it like everyone else, like every other fool who tried to defy fate. You will bargain for it, and you will pay.”

“Anything,” the word stumbles through your lips before you can really think about it, weightless and terrible.

And for a moment you are afraid. For a moment, the core of certainty in your soul wavers and your arms weight down your sides, wrapped up in gold and the payment of the last bargain you made. For a moment you’re nothing but a little girl, far away from home, alone and powerless against the might of a world that doesn’t care about you in the least. You’re left there, stripped bare of all the gifts your Mother gave you, wondering if your own strength is enough to carry you through.

“You will kill the Winged Empress for me,” the Handmaid says after a moment, clearly relishing in the troubled thoughts that roll over your face.

You bark a laugh, sharp and terrible.

“I was already going to do that,” you say, finding it in yourself to sneer, but regretting it when the Handmaid’s smile widens.

“No, you were going to kill her and run away,” she replies, once more looming and terrible, feeding that uncertain twitch in your gut. “You were going to run away, from trolls, from your memories, to spend eternity clawing at your arms and realizing it wasn’t worth it. I’ll give him back to you, even if you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, and you will kill the Winged Empress. And then you will take the ashes of her Empire and use them to build your own. You will rule and bring this and many other worlds to heel, just like your Mother’s promised you. But you will do it on your own, Alilah the Undying. You will build it all with your own hands and pay with your soul for it. You will be strong and the authority you’ll command will be your own.” A strange look crosses the Handmaid’s face, before settling into a wry smirk. “Consider this payment for the kindness you showed me, in another life. This time around, I’m the one who’ll teach you how to be strong.”

“I am strong,” you say, tilting your chin up, defiantly.

“No,” the Handmaid smirks, “you’re really not. But you’ll be, if you agree to the terms of the bargain. It’s your choice.”

“Deal,” you say, clutching your culling fork with white knuckles. 

The Handmaid lowers herself to her knees, by Alston’s side. Slowly, you do the same, watching her warily. She offers a hand, which you take only after a moment’s hesitation. She’s wrong. She has to be. You are strong, by hatchright and your own doing. You _are_ strong. You will prove her wrong and make her regret taunting you, one day. 

“Learn this, if nothing else, last one pays for all,” the Handmaid whispers, clutching your wrist and pressing it tight against Alston’s chest. In her other hand, she’s holding a stone, rough and unpolished, glinting gold at the core, like a heartbeat. “That’s all that matters in the end.” 

You scream, when the pulse of light in the stone burns into your being, scorching along your veins, taking every ounce of power and multiplying it a million fold. You feel the touch of Another, of a will stronger and far more powerful than you’ve ever known, rushing through your mind. It is not a tender touch, like your Mother’s, and you realize with trepidation it is judging you and finding you lacking. You scream, even as a second, frighteningly familiar voice joins your own, while Alston the Spiteful writhes under your touch, consumed with Life. 

Then the light dies, and you find yourself slumping forward, staring up at the Handmaid as she fades away, smug smirk on her face and that wretched stone hovering above her palm, glinting ominously. 

“Last one pays for all,” the Handmaid repeats, as she vanishes into nothing, leaving you frighteningly alone within your mind, “and I will be collecting, sooner than you think.” 

** ♓ **

You stumble through the tunnels, feet dragging as you find your strength not quite where you remember it should be. You feel hollowed out and empty, all your rage and all your hatred taken from you. Still, you go on, clutching at the figure in your arms, pausing every few steps to listen and find comfort in the echoes of his breathing. He’s all you have left, now. Him and the bands of gold clinging to your arms; and the weight of the Handmaid’s price threatening to make your spine bend. Your Mother forbade your return to the cradle of your youth, to the spiraling towers of quartz and the marble roads that saw you grow. Your family on the surface is gone, consumed by their own fate, until all that remains is the token of your Pact. And him. The only one you could save. The only one you could reclaim. Unconscious in your arms, unmoving, but still breathing. 

You have nowhere else to go, but forward. 

So you make yourself give another step and then another, letting your feet carry you through the darkness, to the nest the Great Mother once made for herself. She’s gone now, dead like all the others – except _him_ , just him – but if you must find solace somewhere, perhaps you can find it there. So you walk and walk, telling yourself you’re not running away from the scorching sun shining cruelly on the surface, because you have nowhere to run to. 

“You’re alive.” 

At first, you think you’ve managed to splinter your mind, but then you realize there’s light ahead, and a silhouette standing in the way, with some very familiar horns atop its head. You squint as you stop, clutching Alston closer to your chest, resting his head on your shoulder, so you’ll have his breathing against your neck as a reminder that not all is lost yet. Not all. 

“Who are you?” You demand, tilting your chin back with the memory of arrogance you don’t quite feel anymore. 

For a moment, you think it’s a drone, that perhaps the Great Mother lost her original body but managed to send her mind to one of her countless vessels. But then you remember the bracelet in your arm, and the other steps forward, until the light makes it clear her skin is grey, like yours, and her horns orange, not white. A troll, then. 

“Magdah,” the girl – she’s an adult, of course, but all trolls are but children, next to you, all of them young and unable to truly grow old – says awkwardly, stopping just a few steps away. “Magdah, the Retainer. I am— _was_ my Mother’s personal attendant. Until…” 

Her expression wavers, eyes filling up with tears. You feel an echo, not of sympathy, but the notion that you should be sympathetic. It sounds almost like Harlow, in your mind. The thought makes you dig your fingers into Alston’s body hard enough he makes a sound of pain, but still refuses to awaken. 

“The Great Mother is dead,” you say, not quite a question, but not quite a certainty either. 

“You know she is,” Magdah says, subdued. “You are Alilah, the Undying, Anchor of the Pact. My Mother told me, long ago, this would happen. She knew the fate that awaited her and prepared thusly.” A resigned smile pulls at her lips. “You must be tired. I have quarters prepared for you, to rest and regroup.” She hesitates a moment, staring at Alston with a puzzled frown. “Although… you might have to share them with him. I was not expecting him.” 

You remember the Handmaid’s taunts. Her assurances that you could go on alone, to complete your fate. You shift Alston in your arms, clutching him close. 

“No,” you say, licking your lips, “I don’t imagine you were.” 

** ♓ **

“My Mother was many things,” Magdah tells you, as she works steadily, cleaning up the awful mess in the Great Mother’s chamber. “Not least amongst them, a prophet and a Seer.” 

You feel something almost like admiration for her aplomb, as she hacks and sweeps and shoves out everything: dead drones, broken eggs, bits and pieces from the great carcass that didn’t turn into dust when the Great Mother died. She works and works, and in between she talks to you, asking nothing of you in return. You finger Alston’s hair – he will wake up, on his own time, because he must always be contradictory and obnoxious and do everything on his own time, so you don’t worry about him, because he’s alive and you won’t lose him again, never again – and listen to her stories, piecing together what’s been of the surface in your absence. You don’t like it, but that only means you’ll change it, once you’ve recovered – once he’s awake and ready – enough. 

“She knew all this would come to pass, and knew like all true prophets do, that once the wheels of predestination have been set in motion, there is no stopping them.” Magdah looks up at you with something like wry amusement in her eyes, and you find yourself smiling tightly back. Yes, you already knew that. And you’re almost grateful she didn’t bring up from whom you learned it. “So she prepared, not to save her life, but to ensure her children would survive, after she was gone. She raised me, taught me everything she thought I’d need to know, and told me to wait for you. I admit I doubted, when she died, but here we are now! Just like she said. Ready to begin anew.” 

“No,” you say, standing up after one last caress to Alston’s face. 

“No?” Magdah stares at you, knee deep in death and blood and guts, confused like a child. 

“We are not ready to begin anew,” you say, setting your jaw. “No, I will destroy everything first, like the meteors did before. I’ll burn this planet to the ground and feed the Winged Empress and her stupid little Empire to the flames. And _then_ ,” you smile, teeth bared, “then we can worry about beginnings. I will build foundations stronger than before, so that my Empire will last until trollkind forgets there ever was anything before.” 

Magdah nods in approval. You don’t care for her approval nor you need it for what you will set out to do, but it’s still nice. You remember the Handmaid’s taunt and feel like snarling in contempt. You will build something indestructible, something that will not bend nor break nor be lost. Because you are the Life meant to shoulder the burden of the Pact, and for as long as you live, your Empire will not fall. 

“Say the word,” Magdah says, kneeling before you with ease, “and it will be done.” 

You want to sit back down and cradle your moirail and wait until he’s by your side to set everything in motion. But that’d be weakness, you think, to admit how much he matters. You can cling to him, in the privacy of your mind, the one thing you managed to save from Before. But you can’t allow anyone else to know. You can’t put him in danger by advertising what your weakness is. You will protect him, like you couldn’t protect the others. And when he wakes, and he’s back to being himself, he’ll understand. He’ll nod and smile and promise never to leave your side. 

“I need an army,” you say, eyes narrowed. “One strong enough to crush the Winged Empress.” 

“Most of the drones are dead now,” Magdah says, rising to her feet, unruffled by your demand. “And the ones that are still alive, I can control, though not to the same extent Mother could.” She shrugs. “But I can make you more. And I can train and become stronger. And when this is done, I will help you rebuild.” 

“How long?” You ask, instead of the question burning under your tongue: _why?_

You resolve to question her motives, her true motives, only after she goes through with her offer. It is one thing to promise something, but you know well it’s something else entirely to actually deliver on it. 

“A sweep, at most.” Magdah smiles. “Perhaps less.” 

“Half a sweep, then,” you smile back, reaching out to grab a shovel, ignoring her bewildered look. “Since I’ll be doing half the work.” 

She nods solemnly, as you begin to clear the floor. 

“Half a sweep it is!” 

** ♓ **

Alston doesn’t talk about what happened, before he woke up by your side, in the cavern Magdah gave you to sleep in. From the moment Harlow died, to the moment he jerked awake with a muffled scream in his throat, it is as if no time had passed. You know he remembers, though, because there’s a dark, cruel thing lingering in his eyes, when you ask him, but you don’t press when he lies. Oddly, the lie doesn’t hurt, even though he’s never lied to you before. You did something terrible to him, something selfish and cruel, refusing to let him go join the others across the river of death, you are willing to pay for it, so long as he stays by your side. And he’s promised he will, with a wry smile and arms wrapped tight around your shoulders. He doesn’t question your mission or your desire to conquer and destroy. He nods and smiles and never leaves your side, and from then on you’re certain you will succeed. 

He never uses his powers again, studiously keeping them under a tight leash as he works around the caverns, glaring darkly at the drones and trying in vain to pick a fight with Magdah. You don’t ask him why, remembering the sight of the City consumed into dust, along with all those within its walls. His powers are his own, to use or pretend they’re gone. You didn’t bring him back because he’s powerful or he could win this war for you. It doesn’t really matter. This is your war, you will win it with what you have. 

“My Lady,” Magdah says, standing at the opening of your quarters, looking exhausted but determined. “It is done.” 

Alston’s expression darkens with something you cannot name, but he laces his fingers with you, and that’s enough. You pull yourself up from the soft bedding and tug him along with you, setting your jaw. 

“Show me,” you command, and the words rolls easy on your tongue, because you’ve decided you will become proficient in giving orders, before all this is over. 

Magdah takes you both to the chamber that once housed the Great Mother, which looks even larger than it once was, without her bulk occupying most of it. Instead, thousands upon thousands of huge, black shapes stand in loose lines, chittering low between their fangs. Magdah stops at the entrance to the cave and takes a deep breath. When she releases it, her eyes are glinting in pale green light, not as strong or vibrant as the Great Mother once looked, but still enough to make the drones stand at attention, silent and threatening. 

“These were not born from my Mother,” Magdah explains, “these are not empty vessels made to contain her will. I am not my Mother, I did not birth them into this world, but I was the one who conducted their creation, and for all they have a will of their own, they understand that. They understand the true purpose they were made for, and yearn to complete it. They understand that to reach their own purpose, they must aid you in yours, and they will. They will be your army, until you’ve avenged my Mother and I can restore them to what they were always meant to be. Their predecessors failed to protect my Mother, even though she wished them to fail. They will not fail.” 

You study the sharp claws and the needle-sharp teeth. You admire the shiny gleam of their armored bodies and the fervent glint in their eyes. Intelligent eyes. Troll-like eyes. You ignore the way Alston glares at them with mistrust, because it will be a very, very long time, before Alston stops glaring at everything with mistrust. 

“Their eyes are troll-like,” you say, for lack of anything else to say, turning to Magdah with an approving nod. 

“That’s not surprising,” Magdah smiles, releasing her control of the horde. “They were made from trolls, to slay trolls.” Her smile turns wry. “It seemed only fair.” 

You don’t really have an argument against that, so you nod some more. 

“How many of them?” Alston asks, startling Magdah, since she hadn’t heard him speak before, not in sounds that landdwellers can understand. 

She tilts her head to the side, considering, before shrugging lightly. 

“Twelve thousand, My Lord.” 

Alston spits on the ground at his side, eyes narrowed. 

“Twelve thousand should do just nicely.” 

“Yes,” you smirk, feeling the dregs of your rage begin to shift, revived now under the promise of revenge, “they should. Good job,” you tell Magdah, who bows in gratitude for your words, and kneels down to wait for a command. You find you don’t have to try very hard, to utter the words in the right tone: “We leave tomorrow night.” 

** ♓ **

Your first battle is rather anticlimactic, and not much of a battle in the end, all things considered. 

The nearest settlement to bear the Winged Empress’ flag is little more than a village with a force of scant thirty soldiers from her army to defend it and control it. Who surrendered quite easily once they took stock of the odds, begging for mercy at your feet while you skewered them with your culling fork, one by one. It didn’t escape your notice, the way Magdah smiled when they died, viciousness coming through in a way that reminds you acutely of her erstwhile brother, the Witch. Nor did you miss the fact Alston looked away, when you massacred the soldiers, expression a careful mask of indifference. 

Your moirail has always been burdened by soft kindness, and you love him for it. You would spare him the spectacle and the bloodshed that will come, if you could, but he needs the closure as much as you need your vengeance. 

“What about them?” Alston asks, nodding over to the crowd of trolls, farmers and merchants and children, huddled by the village square, waiting. 

You see it in their eyes, the fear and the desperation, and in your mind you try to imagine your friends wearing those same expressions, when their people betrayed them and sold them out to the Winged Empress. But you can’t, because you knew your friends, you knew their pride and their strength. They would not beg. They would not bend. 

They showed kindness to trollkind, offered it shelter and comfort, in its time of greatest need. And trollkind repaid their sacrifices by trying to break them in the end. 

You will not make the same mistakes. 

“They can join my horde and live,” you say, wiping blood off the tip of your culling fork, “or they can be torched along with their village if they refuse.” 

“They will not love you for this,” Alston says, licking his lips to hide a snarl, because even after all that has been done to him, he still hopes against all hope, for trollkind to find their way with peace and love and kindness. He is a fool, but you love him too much to tell him so. “They will not forget _or_ forgive.” 

“Good,” you reply, sharp, “then I will not have to do this ever again once we’re done.” 

It is Magdah, rather than Alston, who carries out your orders, but you don’t mind, because come the next dusk, Alston is there, tending to your mount and waiting for you. Sixteen new trolls join the march, when you head out, out of nearly a hundred that populated the village. It’s alright, you think, pulling yourself up onto the saddle, pragmatic. 

Sixteen is better than none. 

** ♓ **

For three sweeps, you wander almost aimlessly throughout the continent, sacking towns and cities; giving trolls the same choice wherever you go: they can take their place behind you, marching along your horde, or they can die within the smoldering ruins of their world. For three sweeps, you ride to where the wind will take you, uncontested. The professional soldiers that guard the settlements die, without question, for the great crime of carrying the Winged Empress’ insignia on their armor. No matter how much they beg for mercy, how much they struggle to win your favor. The richer cities send you gifts, when they realize you’re approaching: gold and slaves and supplies, trying to bargain their survival. They don’t understand you have no use for gold, when you can just take what you want, and always do. They don’t anticipate the slaves’ reaction to being freed, even if it’s just to join your army. They don’t realize the supplies they provide are but a preview of all you’ll take, once you break through their walls and burn down their homes. 

For three sweeps, you destroy everything in your path, not conquering the lands you walk through, but making sure there’s nothing left behind when you leave. 

For three sweeps you kill and slaughter, and each new death is but fuel to the rage devouring your soul and commanding all your senses. You might have called it madness, before, when you still cared about the consequences of your actions. Now it is the fire that keeps you warm in the long, dreadful winter nights. A solid purpose to guide your steps. 

Alston no longer looks away, when you execute your prisoners, no longer stays behind when you step into the frontlines. He finds no enjoyment in the task ahead of you, and he does not kill anyone that doesn’t try to kill him first, but he’s resigned himself to see you through your mission and as much as he hates it, he does not hate you. He’s appointed himself general of your army – though it is not an army and you call it a horde for a reason – and he’s appointed other generals and captains among the trolls who’ve joined it, planning strategies and trying to be methodical about your advances, even if your only goal is to see the world burn. 

For three sweeps, you’ve ridden ahead of the march, at the frontlines of each battle, carrying out executions with your own hands. For three sweeps, you’ve allowed yourself to become a force of nature, ravaging the planet with the same remorseless violence the meteors once did. 

And after three sweeps, trolls outnumber the drones under your command, fifty to one, and more and more come to join you, of their own free will, in response to the harsher policies the Winged Empress has enforced, trying to contain the damage you’ve done. Along with more trolls, come the assassins and the spies, the politics and the subterfuge. You have no time to deal with it, and let Magdah and Alston handle it as they see fit, closing ranks behind you to protect your back while you keep moving inexorably forward. 

Your enemy is still halfway across the planet from you, safe behind the fortified walls of her Capital, but she knows of you and she knows you’re coming. Her Empire crumbles before you, her armies steadily dwindling now that once more no new children are being hatched to replenish the dead. 

“We have guests,” Alston says, entering your tent with the air of indifference that has become his default expression by now. 

“Guests,” you repeat, one eyebrow arched, as you look up from where you’ve busied yourself sharpening the tips of your culling fork, whetstone in hand. 

“You have admirers, darling,” he says, going to the small table on the side, to serve himself some wine. “News of our antics here in the South have reached the North. The Winged Empress never really had much of a hold, on the free cities of the North, and with most of her attention and her troops focused on us, they’ve decided to do your work for you.” 

“Have they?” You lean back, watching him drink with a small frown on your face. Alston drinks much more than he used to, these days. Actual wine, for one, rather than the water he pretended was liquor, back in the days he enjoyed scandalizing the Pact with his antics. Now more often than not, when he acts drunk, he really is drunk, and you’re not sure you like it. But he is entitled to it, after all that has happened and after what you’ve done to him, so you bite your tongue and let him be. “And now I suppose they come, expecting me to be impressed.” 

“Actually, from what I gathered, they’re expecting you to turn your army on them,” he snorts. “They are smart enough to know you have no reason to spare them, and so they’ve come trying to give you one. For one thing, they would much rather take their chances with you, than with her. And given that they’ve burned the North to the ground for you, they haven’t exactly left themselves with a way out if you decide to curbstomp them to the ground. Rather than being impressed, I think they’re just hoping you’d be willing to let them join you.” 

You hum in the back of your throat, pensive. If it’s true, they might have saved you a trip to the Northern continent, before you fall upon the East with all your forces. It’s convenient and unexpected; a combination you’ve learned by now is never nearly as good as it pretends to be. 

“Do you trust them?” You ask, returning to your task, slowly sliding the whetstone against the prongs of your weapon. 

Alston laughs, a nasty, meanspirited laugh. 

“Of course I don’t,” he snarls a smile, clutching the wooden cup in his hand so hard it nearly splinters, “they’re _trolls_.” 

You smirk. 

“Then it’s a good thing you and I know well how to deal with trolls.” You put the whetstone down and stand up leisurely, stretching yourself until your horns nearly touch the ceiling of the tent. “Bring them to me, I’ll decide if they’re worth keeping alive or not.” 

** ♓ **

“My Empress,” the leader of the Northerners says, sliding off his mount easily in a single, fluid motion that ends with him on his knees, head bowed. “The Children of the North are honored to be in your presence.” 

You study the precise lines of his troops behind him as they follow his lead and drop down to their knees in a wave of reverence. Two hundred thousand trolls and most of their lusii, bowing to you; something stirs in your chest, at the sight. Something terrible and all consuming. It is not the first time trolls have bowed down to you; they fawned over you, when you first came to the surface, but they did so, because Harlow told them you were their savior, and they believed his word without needing you to prove yourself to them. And upon your second return, many have thrown themselves at your feet, surrendering themselves to mercy you don’t think you’ll ever have again. But this time there is no fire around you, no pile of corpses waiting to be burned to nothing. There are no cities in ruins, no blood spilled by your hand. 

They bow to you and your authority, and you wish the Handmaid were here to see this, so you could make her take back her hateful words. 

“I am not an Empress,” you say, clutching your culling fork and despite it all, wondering how long it’d take you to destroy this army, if they rose against you. 

“Not yet, perhaps,” the blueblood says, his horns two majestic spires atop his head. He raises his head just enough to catch your eye, and you realize he’s smiling. “But once you kill the Winged Empress, what else will you be, if not an Empress?” He takes a gamble, standing up. You decide to indulge him and let him speak his piece, before you decide whether to kill him or not, for it. “We are the Children of the North, we are those who left behind the Pact and its City, to make our own way in the world. We built our own cities with our own hands, and served no one but ourselves. We settled in the North, because the North is ruthless and unforgiving. Because the weak do not thrive, in the North. You are not weak.” 

“No,” you smirk, “I am not. But what does it say about you, that until I came along, the North hung the Winged Emrpess’ banners atop its towers? How strong can the North really be, if it needed a stranger, a seadweller from the void beyond the depths, to shake off her hold on you?” 

“Strong enough to endure her,” he replies, unruffled by the insult, and now you find yourself actually interested in what he has to say. “We tolerated her claims on our lands, because we knew them for what they were: the delusions of a child who wouldn’t last a winter night out there. We let her be and she let us be, in return. Yes, we hung her banners atop our walls and let her pretend she owned us, because we knew the truth. The North cannot be conquered. The plains in the North do not grow grain. The trees in the North do not give fruit. The animals in the North are not cattle. The Winged Empress wanted to claim ownership of the North in name, and we let her have it, because words and names are meaningless, in the North.” 

“Even so,” you retort, eyebrows arched mockingly, “that doesn’t tell me why you’re here. Now, I mean, when you have no other choice. If the North had come earlier, the Pact might not have fallen. If the North had rejected the Winged Empress, rather than enduring her, we would not be having this conversation, and I would not be contemplating the best way to tear your smug little head off your shoulders.” 

“We could have aided the South, that’s true,” he goes on, undeterred and unashamed. “Long before the Winged Empress came. We could have turned the tides, then, but we chose not to. Because by then the South had proven itself unworthy of us. There was war, in the North. There were plagues and famines and death. When the Orator’s city was swallowed by the earth itself, our government collapsed. We were not the free cities of the North, then, grand and proud. We were orphans, at heart still children of the Pact. We had left, but we had not been exiled. We had built roads and villages, taking with us the culture and the lore from the City that saw us grow. We followed the teachings of the Pact, and when we lost our way, we waited and waited for the South to come to our aid. For the Pact to come and make things right, like they had always done before. But the Pact didn’t come, and the South didn’t care, if the North starved to death all those who war and disease didn’t kill first. So we survived on our own, and fought our own wars, and when it was all over, the Winged Empress was at our doors. A troll bred and hatched in the abundance of the South, who flapped her wings around and acted like her mutant blood gave her rights to anything. And we realized she didn’t care for us, that what she truly wanted was the South. We could have stopped her, then. But why should the North give a damn about the South, when the South never gave a damn about the North? We hung up the insipid banners on our walls and the Winged Empress turned around and marched South again, and we went on surviving as we always had. Alone.” 

“And yet here you are,” you sneer, because his disdain for the Pact makes your skin crawl, his foolish entitlement makes you want to scream. Because he is a troll, and trolls always want more than they are given, and never give anything in return. “In the South.” 

“Here we are.” He snarls a smirk, oozing charisma and disdain. If you hadn’t already made up your mind to hate all trolls, you would be tempted to say you almost like him. He reminds you of Harlow, when pushing came to shoving, and he had to use his words to destroy, rather than rebuild. But this arrogant blueblood warlord is not worth the dirt in Harlow’s shoes, and you find yourself hating him more, for making you compare him to him, in the privacy of your own mind. “Because of you.” 

“Because you fear I will march North, once I’m done with the South?” You taunt, ignoring the way Alston scowls disapprovingly. “Because you think this way, at least you will survive?” 

“Because you threatened her enough she remembered her so-called claim to the North,” the blueblood says, snarling. “Because you made her forget she never actually conquered the North. Three moons ago, she torched one of our cities. She said she would torch them all, if we didn’t march South immediately, to join her army and help her stop you.” 

“And instead you torched the rest of your cities and marched South to join me.” You arch an eyebrow at him, sneer firmly in place. “How very reasonable.” 

“The North cannot be conquered,” he repeats, yet again, pride making him bold. “But it can be given. She has no right to command us, and truthfully, neither do you. But we offer it to you, for the sake of repaying that offense. Take us with you, command us like you would the rest of your army, and we will stay with you until her Empire is ashes at your feet.” 

“I don’t need you to do that,” you say, because in truth you don’t. You know it, and he knows it. “And even if I did, I notice you’re very careful not to make any promises, once all is done.” 

“You will be an Empress, once she’s dead.” He shrugs, cavalier. “Whether you’ll be Empress of the North, as well of the South, will depend solely on you. We offer to follow you now, out of spite and our own interests. But prove yourself to us, and you will not need to conquer the North; we will give it to you, and we will follow you forever.” 

You take a long moment to answer, letting the silence linger as much as you need it to. You study this blueblood, the chosen spokesman for the North, with his proud smirk and his unbent back. You let your eyes wander over his army and take care to notice the fierce determination in every eye you see. You were not bragging, when you assured him you didn’t need him or his people. You’ve amassed enough power on your own – enough _authority_ – to complete your quest without them. And if what he says it’s true, if your relentless assault on her has caused the Winged Empress to be desperate enough to seek the North for support, you can’t be too far away from completing your task. 

But you remember your bargain with the Handmaid, the payment promised, for the sake of Alston’s life. You will have to stay, once it’s all said and done. You will have to rule. 

You haven’t told him that, or anything pertaining his return to life or what you did to make it possible. It’s not his burden to bear. 

“What’s your name?” You ask, at last, lips pursed in thought. “Your title?” 

“What does it matter?” The blueblood retorts, in a tone no troll has dared to use with you, before. 

You smile. 

“It doesn’t,” you say, throwing your head back arrogantly, hair rustling behind you. “I just like calling my generals by name.” 

** ♓ **

“Freydn the Bold,” Alston says, savoring the words thoughtfully as he walks around the map on the table. “Hn. The Child of the North!” He fiddles with the markers on the map, removing the city you’ve sent your newfound allies out to destroy, to prove themselves in battle for you. “Son of a bitch, I might actually like the bastard.” 

You chuckle, from your perch on your chair – it’s not quite comfortable, but it was offered to you by the trolls under your command, a makeshift throne of sorts, and you figured you might as well use it – and bite into an apple with a smirk. 

“Of course you do,” you say, once you swallow down the mouthful, “he’s a _spiteful_ bastard, how could you _not_ like him?” 

“Very easily, in fact,” Alston retorts, huffing arrogantly. “I understand spite, of course. It’s not my namesake for nothing. But precisely because I understand it, I’m not usually very fond of it, when it’s not my own.” He sighs loudly. “By the look of things, though, he’s going to be sticking around for a while, so I suppose it’s a good thing that I like him, bastard or not.” 

“It’ll take us a sweep at most, to close in on the Capital,” you muse, turning the apple around in your hand. “After that, who knows, they might just run back North again.” You snort. “And since we know _the North cannot be conquered_ ,” you mock, trying to imitate the booming quality of the blueblood’s voice, and Alston snickers, despite himself, “it might take a while for us to cross paths again.” 

“He’s not going anywhere, darling,” Alston says, shaking his head. “He’s in love with you, and so is every other troll out there.” You splutter. Alston goes on, regardless. “They love you, truly. They might have joined you out of fear and self-preservation, but then I’ve always told you, no one can look at you and not feel the urge to bow.” 

“So what if they love me,” you snarl a little, expression dark, “we both know how much love helped the others, when they needed it.” 

“I know, but…” 

“Fear is much more useful,” you interrupt, biting into the apple with a vengeance, “predictable, even.” 

Alston scowls unhappily. 

“Fear and love are not actually mutually exclusive, you know?” He shakes his head. “They love you and they fear you. And when all it’s said and done, and it’s your head, wearing the crown, they will never love or fear anyone else but you.” And then, because you’re still looking unconvinced, he rolls his eyes at you. “This is a _good_ thing, Alilah. Fear alone will not keep you on the throne, once you’re the only thing around left to be feared.” 

“Neither will love,” you conclude, and raise a hand, when he looks like he wants to argue. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” 

Alston scoffs and then goes sit next to you, in a much less ornate chair, which is also much more comfortable than yours. 

“Then what _do_ you want to talk about?” 

You turn the apple again, and bite into the sweet flesh, thinking. 

“Tell me about the Capital,” you say, at last, shrugging slightly. “What should we expect, when we arrive?” 

“I thought we wouldn’t close in on the Capital for another sweep,” Alston muses, expression wry. 

“We won’t,” you snort, “but given how I don’t know anything about it or the Empire, really, besides the fact that it will burn, I figure I might as well start learning.” 

Alston barks a strangled laugh at that, burrowing his face into his hands. It’s true, of course. You’ve never been one to bother with politics, and this endeavor hasn’t changed that. You don’t care about allegiances or contracts or feuds between trolls. Trolls are what stand in the way of your vengeance, and all you have to do is step on them, to make them stop mattering. That’s easy enough. But now you do have allies, and for all you’ve been pretending otherwise, you’ve been wondering how much truth there was, to Freydn’s speech. You wonder how your rival built her Empire, now that you’re so close to begin building your own. And for the first time since you stepped into the ruins of the City, you find yourself remembering that what you’re burning to the ground is someone else’s history. Knowing that history will not change your determination to reduce it all to ashes, but your curiosity about the surface has always been a driving point about your personality, and now that you’re so close to victory you can almost taste it, the rage has simmered down enough for you to feel something other than contempt and disdain for trolls and all that’s related to them. 

“It’s called Imoogi,” Alston says, after a moment, “the Dragon’s Nest.” You blink, bewildered, and Alston laughs at you, shaking his head in despair. “And yes, my dear, that’s precisely why her army rallies behind dragon banners.” His eyes dance with amusement, despite his theatrics. “You know, most people in your shoes would have bothered to figure out this sort of thing _before_ embarking on the burn-and-destroy campaign.” 

“I am not most people,” you mutter petulantly. “I didn’t care about these things, when I set out to kill her and destroy her Empire.” 

“I know you didn’t care,” he says patiently, “and to be fair that’s probably why you’ve succeeded thus far.” You give him a challenging look. “Because you’re not most people,” he adds, unfazed, “you’re you.” 

You snort. 

“That I am.” You throw him the half eaten apple, which he catches without blinking. He takes a bite while you stretch in your makeshift throne. “I still don’t care,” you point out unnecessarily, which only makes Alston hum in the back of his throat as he chews. “And once we’re done I realize it’s not even going to matter. But I figure I might as well ask at some point.” 

“And since we’re for once not the ones sacking a city, this is a good time as any?” Alston asks, and all you can do is shrug at him. He smiles shrewdly. “And this of course has nothing to do with the fact there’s a certain _bold_ blueblood out there you might want to impress?” 

The humor falls flat from your face. 

“I don’t need to impress anyone, bold or blueblood,” you snap, sitting up straight. 

“I didn’t say anything about need,” Alston taunts, smirk obnoxious enough to tempt you to put a culling fork through his face. “I’m talking about wanting.” 

“All I want is to burn this rotten Empire to the ground and make the Winged Empress pay for what she did to the others,” you hiss, glaring dangerously. 

It’s nothing new, Alston making you want to hurt him. It’s just who he is. But sometimes, you wish he weren’t. 

“And you’re gonna get it, the way things are going,” Alston snorts, unruffled by your anger and utterly unafraid of your wrath. Damn him for knowing how much you really love him. “But if you play your cards right, you might get something else along with what you want.” He grins with his teeth bared. “Something blueblooded and bold, for instance.” 

“Speaking of what I want,” you snarl, teeth grinding against each other, “are you going to tell me what I want to know, or should I go ask Magdah instead?” 

He laughs again and throws the apple back at you, smug. 

“Remiss of me, your Imperial Highness,” he says, mock contrite, “what else do you want to know about Imoogi?” 

** ♓ **

Nearly a million trolls march behind you, during the last confrontation with the Winged Empress. Their exhaustion has completely given way to bloodlust, and they fight ferociously against the last dregs of her army. The battle rages on for three nights, stopping only when the glare of the scorching sun forces both forces to retreat, leaving behind corpses to rot in the heat. 

You lose a hundred thousand trolls, before the Winged Empress flees the battleground, abandoning her troops to their fate. 

You are their fate, and you are not kind. 

They don’t surrender, even when they’re abandoned by their so-called Empress. But that’s not really surprising, considering your policy to slaughter any troll who fights for your enemy. Alston calls it an unnecessary waste of resources, exhausting your army fighting against trolls driven by despair. Freydn doesn’t question you, though, and neither does Magdah. But of course, they’re not Alston, they are not entitled to disagree with you. Magdah is bound to obey your every word, no matter what, and she’s found herself enjoying her time at your side. She does as you want, following with the same devotion you imagine she followed her Mother, and while you don’t exactly wish her ill, you don’t really feel an overwhelming loyalty to her. Freydn is proud and reckless, but you’ve made it a habit to ignore him, from time to time, just to make sure he doesn’t take your agreement with his council for granted. Only Alston remains, in the whole wide world, with the stubbornness to oppose you if he so chooses, and the implicit trust that you won’t harm him, if he decides to challenge your opinions. He’s annoyed by your decision, he questions it openly and throws a grand tantrum when you summarily ignore him, but he’s by your side, when you march on towards Imoogi, just like you knew he’d be. 

The city stands in a valley by the sea, with tall, strong walls decorated with the skulls of what once upon a time were dragons. It looks to you like a mockery of Harlow’s city, an insult to his memory, that this nest of vipers rather than dragons was allowed to survive, while his city, built with so much love and care and hope, was left to rot and crumble away into nothing. 

“There are no soldiers left,” Freydn says, smug, as he rides up to your side, looking down the city at the bottom of the valley. “It should take no less than an hour, to burn it down to embers.” 

“There are no soldiers left,” Alston snarls, hands tight around the reigns of his mount, “only hostages.” 

“They chose to stay,” you say, mouth pressed into a thin line, “they could have left.” Like all the other trolls who joined you, who chose life rather than fire when you gave them the chance. Alston doesn’t look convinced. “They didn’t. Now they have to live with that choice.” You smile. It is not a pleasant smile. “Or die, rather.” 

“They will never forgive you, if you do this,” he says, and Freydn snorts along with you in response. Alston snarls. “You’ve crushed every army that rose to fight you. They admire that. But these are not soldiers. These are people protecting their homes. If you kill them, they will remember what it was like, when you burned their own homes. And they will not forgive you.” 

“I did not come up all this way, to stop right before the end,” you snap, clutching your culling fork tightly. 

“But you didn’t come here to kill innocents, either,” Alston insists, jaw set defiantly. “You came here for vengeance, and you shall have it. But if you lead your horde through the city doors, they will never love you. It will not be victory, it will be slaughter. And in time, they will hate you for it.” 

“They _have_ to die,” Freydn snorts, “you know this.” 

“Mercy would be hypocrisy at this point,” Magdah points out, in that quiet, solemn tone of hers. 

Alston ignores them both, staring at you intently. 

“If the city has to fall, it will fall, but don’t let it soil your victory as it does.” He swallows hard. “Let the sin not be yours.” 

You stare. The world narrows down to a point, Freydn and Magdah and the army at your back fading into ether as you realize the true meaning of Alston’s protests. You swallow hard. 

“You would do that?” You ask, interrupting something unimportant Freydn is snarling about and effectively shutting him up in the process. “For me?” 

“For us both,” Alston smiles, empty and hollow. “If you’ll let me.” His expression softens. “They’re trolls, they’re fickle and worthless, and if you let yourself become the monster now, so close to victory, they will flock to another, to protect them from you. Let me be the monster they turn to you for solace from, when it’s all over. Let them hate me, so they may love you still.” 

“You don’t have to do this,” you swallow hard. “Not for me. I don’t care if they don't love me, it won’t change a thing.” 

“No, I don’t have to,” Alston says, eyes filling up with bright violet light, “but I want to. And it will make a difference. You have been living in the present for far too long, darling. After tonight, you will only have the future to deal with.” 

“She’s mine to kill,” you say, refusing to give into the urge and reach out to hug him, the stupid, selfless _idiot_. “She’s always been mine to kill, from the start.” 

“Then you can have her,” Alston shrugs, and the way he looks at you lets you know he’s resisting the same urge you are, “but not the rest.” 

You nod, once. Magdah gasps loudly, while Freydn stares, dumbstruck, as Alston raises from his mount, wrapped in violet light, and then shoots down towards the city, violet lightning crackling along his limbs as he goes. 

Imoogi is but a crater in the ground, by the time he is done. 

** ♓ **

“You can’t kill me.” 

You arch an eyebrow, sliding off your mount easily as you approach the fallen Empress. She’s sitting on the ground, on the ashes of her Capital, which was devoured by something far more dangerous than dragon fire. The thought makes one of the brands on your arms tingle with a memory, and you snarl a smile at her. 

“Can’t I?” You wonder out loud, culling fork dragging on the ground as you walk leisurely up to her. “And why is that?” 

Your army watches from the sidelines, studying the precise desolation painted all around them, each blow like a delicate brushstroke on a canvas. They see the scorched ground and the vaporized hives and fail utterly to understand the true monstrousness of Alston’s kindness. You doubt anyone in Imoogi lingered enough to feel pain as they died. There was no rape, no murder, no time to beg for their lives. Only light and the soft touch of death, and before they realized it, it was over. Yes, they had to die, there was no other choice since mercy would be just hypocrisy at this point, but mercy is what they got, in the end. Alston’s mercy, so cleverly hidden behind his wrath that not one of them, living or dead, realized that’s what it was. 

“I am the Winged Empress,” the mutant snarls, wings fluttering behind her as she pulls herself back to her feet. Her eyes, a hideously bright red, seem to almost glow with contempt. “My Empire will shape Alternia’s destiny for all eternity. I am—“ 

“A child,” you interrupt, clutching your weapon in a tight fist. “An impertinent, reckless child who stepped outside her place and allowed herself to think she was worth more than she deserved.” 

“The Handmaid—“ 

“The Handmaid lies,” you say, tone severe as you prepare to give the first strike. “I could have killed you, without destroying your Empire. I could have stormed your city, alone, and you would have been dead without even screaming first.” 

From the depths of her desperation, the true understanding of how much she’s truly lost, the mutant finds it in herself to swing her sword at you. It clatters against the culling fork as you block the blow almost absentmindedly. 

“I am the Empress!” She screams, swinging her sword at your head, sloppily. 

“But then you wouldn’t have a chance to understand what you did,” you go on, almost placid. Your rage has settled into a deceptively calm surface in your mind, letting your thoughts flow freely to your mouth. This is your moment, the jewel in the crown of your revenge. You don’t intend to rush this. “Your death wouldn’t be an example for others, a warning not to take what it isn’t theirs to have.” 

“You, you, you,” she spits out the words with contempt, fluttering up and around, trying to find an opening. “Please. Spare me the dramatics. You’re very far away, now, from the Sea and your Mother. I am an Empress of my own doing, beloved of my people—“ 

“Only because you gave them only death as an alternative, if they didn’t,” you snort mockingly. 

You too asked your people to choose between you and death, but you’ve never been deluded enough to call it love. Only Alston clings to that hope still, only Alston wants the impossible anymore. 

“And my Empire was my own, built with my own effort, on my own.” She snarls contemptuously as her sword is caught in the prongs of your weapon. “What have you built? What have you done? Truly? On your own? So you put up a good fight, but only mostly as a result of the troops you bullied to your side. Once I kill you, your army will be mine and then everything will be the same it was always meant to be.” 

You twist the culling fork sharply, and there’s a slight resistance for a moment, before superior metalwork triumphs and the sword shatters in her grip. She tries to fly back, away, but you grab an ankle before she can, fingers digging into her flesh as she flutters in a panic. 

“I don’t need an army.” You raise your voice, ignoring the way she’d kicking at you, trying to flee, focusing all your attention on the trolls surrounding you from a prudent distance. Watching. Judging. You open your mind and borrow some of your Mother’s Voice, infusing your own with its power, so it will reach every ear, make every spine shiver. “I don’t need a crown. I don’t even need a sword.” You throw the mutant on the ground, and smile as she screams, when you stab one of her wings with your culling fork, pinning her to the ground. “I am Alilah, the Undying,” you turn in a slow circle, snarling at the trolls watching you, daring them to look away. “Daughter of the Singer, Keeper of the Pact and Leader of the Horde.” Without looking down, you grab the culling fork and twist it, still deeply inbedded in the mutant’s wing. She screeches in pain as the limb is torn off her back, a puddle of blood oozing from the wound. “From this day on, you will kneel to me, or you will die.” You sink the culling fork into the mutant’s body once more, on her chest, this time, and her scream ends in a wet gasp as life rushes away from her. “It is as simple as that.” 

For a moment, nothing happens. For one eternal instant, all is silence and expectation. And then Alston, storm of violet lightning on his skin, descends from the sky to stand scant feet before you. Every troll watching trembles, waiting. They stand among the ruins of what he’s capable of, the fear of him is nearly rival to their fear of you. And then, in one precise, calculated movement, Alston folds down to his knees before you, pressing his forehead to the ground. 

“All Hail the Empress!” Freydn screams, from his place among your troops, breaking the silence with a note of vicious joy in his voice. 

And then it is done, without question, without a way out, as more and more voices scream to the sky, swearing an allegiance even now you know they will come to regret one day. 

The debt has been paid. 

** ♓ **

A sweep and a night, after you killed the Winged Empress and claimed the ashes of her Empire for yourself, you find yourself standing in the ruins of Harlow’s City, once more. Your Horde has followed you home, the North and the South united under the banners of your sign. They take their place along the plain, feet crushing the soft grass, as they watch you walk to the center of what once was the grand plaza where many lifetimes ago, you stood in a circle with the only trolls you ever cared about and summoned the Guardian of the Green Moon. This ceremony could have been done anywhere, should have been done in the ruins of Imoogi, really, but you wanted it here. You wanted to end it all where it all began, so you can begin anew. No one but Alston understands the significance of it, not truly, but Alston seems to approve, eager to put an end to this chapter of his life. 

“Alternia itself stands before you, tonight, under the twin moons,” he says, raising his voice so it will echo in the emptiness all around you. “You are the Life trolls have chosen, over death, over deceit, over themselves. We are here to swear oaths of loyalty and fealty to you, and to receive in turn your promise for the future.” 

There is a little ghost of Harlow in him, tonight. Something solemn and grand that he never really allowed to the surface before. And you remember, as if in a dream, that he was to be King, once. That he grew up learning the rules of royalty, and paid for the knowledge with blood and misery. The Vagrant King, they called him once, because they were too afraid of his unbending dignity to admit he was no vagrant at all. You smile at him, a small, private smile, that only he gets to see, and bend one knee to the ground, head bowed before him. 

Who else but Alston, your compass and counterbalance, to stand before you tonight, in place of all trolls? 

“We are trolls, and we have sworn to you, to follow you into war, to honor your name and your house, to obey your command without question. We have proven our vows with blood, our enemies’ and our own.” He looks at the circlet of gold in his hands, a gift from Freydn, forged from the golden steel of the Winged Empress’ sword. “Do you swear to repay our loyalty with yours, Alilah the Undying? Do you swear to rule, justly and ruthlessly, from this day on, until death herself comes to claim you? Do you swear to keep your pride, when we have lost all of ours, and to uphold your vows with your very life?” 

You tilt your head up at him, meeting his eyes as you smile. 

“I do.” 

He doesn’t smile back. 

“Then in the name of Alternia, in the name of trolls, in the name of the Pact you carry on your arms,” he leans in, placing the circlet on your head, around your forehead. It is heavier than you expected. “I crown you tonight Empress of Alternia, of land and sea and sky, and may trolls never bend the knee again, to anyone but Her Imperious Condescension.” 

** ※ ℧ ‡ ʆ ₪ ⁂ ৳ § ☥ ℵ ♓ **

_End of Part I_

** ※ ℧ ‡ ʆ ₪ ⁂ ৳ § ☥ ℵ ♓ **

(A/N: And because I like you guys, and I know someone out there is going to ask if I’m still committed to the rest of this monstrous series, have a peek of what’s to come in _Jetsam_.) 

  


* * *

  


**Rust ♈ Servant**

“Go die in a fucking fire," you snap acidly, before throwing a book at his stupid, pompous head. 

"Manners," he murmurs, always with the fucking murmuring, the light from the lamp gleaming over the shiny surface of his head. 

The book never reaches its target. 

"My bad," you deadpan, hands twitching and wishing dearly there was something, anything, you could do to make him hurt. "Kindly go die in a fire. _Please_." 

  


* * *

  


**Violet ℵ Lord**

"Kid, really," you smile at the gargantuan troll, eyebrows arched tauntingly as you reach to pat his knee in a decidedly condescending way. "I've killed shit a thousand times bigger, stronger and scarier than you. Don't make me ruin this shirt with undue bloodstains, I rather like it." 

  


* * *

  


**Purple ♑ Tyrant**

"All I be motherfucking SAYING, is that you're letting the MOTHERFUCKING ANGER flow. And I ain't the motherfucker to JUDGE OR BEGRUDGE A GOOD FUCKING RAGE, but you tend to not MOTHERFUCKING THINK SHIT THROUGH, when you get this rightful anger on." 

"And you do?" She snaps, lips folding back into a delicate, practiced snarl. 

"Remind me AGAIN, my most IMPERIAL OF SISTERS, who of US MOTHERFUCKERS HERE still has enemies alive?" 

“One ought to admit,” Lord Imoogi mutters snidely, “he mostly has a point.” 

  


* * *

  


**Indigo ♐ Archer**

“You’re a _coward_ ,” you say, the words more poignant because your face remains as impassive as ever. 

“How dare you speak such lies to my face?” The older man snarls, eyes bleeding red with rage. 

“I speak the truth,” you snap, tilting your chin up defiantly. “If you do not like it, my lord, it is you who has to change. Not me.” 

  


* * *

  


**Jade ♍ Mother**

"Don't touch him!" You force yourself to stand, swaying under the weight of hunger and exhaustion, and swing the blade at them, teeth bared ferally. "Don't you dare touch him!" 

On the ground, surrounded by strangers, your child takes one look at your face and starts to cry with big, loud wails. The sound startles the other trolls, who stare from the crying boy to you and back again. 

"You will not touch him," you say again, feeling each sob fill your veins with fire. "Because if you do, it will be the last thing you'll ever do." 

  


* * *

  


**Olive ♌ Scribe**

"What did I just say?" You flinch and bite back a complaint as his little wooden baton swings swiftly, making the air whistle before smacking you square in one horn. The pain vibrates all the way through your skull into your pan, making you blink back tears. 

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to, sir. I'll just--" 

"You'll just take your stupid shitblood ass and carry it out of my store before I cull it for you." 

You open your mouth to try and plead your case, but one look at his face lets you know the threat is not in vain. You scramble to gather your things as quickly as possible, holding back the tears out of sheer wounded pride, and try to tell yourself that you didn't really like working for him much anyway. 

  


* * *

  


**Violet ♒ Mariner**

"Shit, shit, nooklicking fuck, ow!" You whine as the old man tugs you along by one of your horns, gripping tight enough, it makes your entire scalp feel on fire. The whining is horribly undignified, but given the situation, you might as well. "The fuck did I do now?" 

"Be a disgrace," the old man deadpans at you, tightening his grip even more and making you hiss in response. "What did I tell you was going to happen if I had to clean up one more of your fucking messes, boy?" 

"Oh, _fuck_." 

"Indeed." 

  


* * *

  


**Iron ♋ Infidel**

"Sometimes," you confess, voice hushed, "I dream things." 

"Really?" The man looks genuinely interested, and the fact he's listening to you fills you with strange, pleased warmth. “How so?” 

"Uh huh, it's never the same dream, but I know they're all connected, somehow," you beam at him, when he shifts in his seat, as if you listen to you better. 

"Perhaps you're a prophet then," he says, and something in the way he says it makes you feel like he's not just indulging you. 

  


* * *

  


**Gold ♊ Slave**

You will not cry. You will not. Air burns its way into your lungs and your mouth tastes of blood and your head hurts like it wants to split open, but you will not cry. Your breath hisses between your teeth and your knees shake, but you keep your hands on the wall and make yourself stay quiet as the whip whistles and pain explodes across your back. 

You will not cry, or you'll make it worse. You can take this, you've taken worse. You will not cry. 

But you want to, and that is what truly makes you hate him. 

  


* * *

  


**Fuchsia ƺ Heiress**

You stare at the court, forcing yourself to keep your chin tilted up. But it doesn't help that they're all staring. She's staring. You take a deep breath and walk forward, shoulders squared off and fins flared. When you reach the bottom of the steps leading up to the throne, you swallow hard and slowly bend down to one knee, but you keep your head up. 

"My Empress," you say, inordinately proud when your voice doesn't crack, not even when She, impossibly, smiles down at you. 

"My Heiress." 

  


* * *

  


**Lime ʆ Ghost**

"You only care about things never changing, about staying at the top, no matter who you have to step on! You’ve never known misery a day in your life; you’ve never known true sacrifice! You were just given your throne, because your blood happened to be the right color, and now all you care about is keeping it to yourself!" 

You put your face in your hands at his words, because that is about the worst possible thing he could have said. This entire conversation is the worst possible thing that could have happened. You're not even surprised when she lunges forward, claws aiming for his throat. 

  


* * *

  


**Fuchsia ♓ Ruler**

"So be it." You study the faces around you, how they eagerly await to see what you'll do, hoping to catch even the smallest hint of weakness in your expression. You refuse to give them the privilege. "The mutant will die." 

"What of his followers, My Empress?" 

You pin down the general with a look, watching him squirm under its weight for a moment before smiling. It's a very well-practiced smile; you learned it after the first assassination attempt. 

"I'm sure I will think of something suitable." You wave a hand, taking inordinate pleasure in watching them square their shoulders and salute to you. "Dismissed." 

  


* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DONE.
> 
> DEAR GOD, IT'S DONE.
> 
> If you've enjoyed the ride, I would be overjoy to hear your thoughts, not only on this chapter, but the story as a whole. It's been an amazing adventure and I'm deeply grateful for all of you, who stuck around to see it through with me. Particularly considering the subject matter.
> 
> Sharp-eyed Distrait readers might recognize the name Freydn, as in _Ximena Freydn_ , Equius' matesprit. Yes, there's a reason for that. You'll see soon enough.
> 
> ONE DOWN, THREE MORE TO GO.
> 
> YAY.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~OhdeargodI'mgonnadie.~~


End file.
